


A Delicate Balance, Part Two

by Sondra



Series: A Delicate Balance [2]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sondra/pseuds/Sondra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Afraid for Blake's safety, Avon forcibly takes his place in infiltrating the Pylene-50 manufacturing plant and successfully sabotages the Federation's operation there.  But something goes wrong during his escape to safety; and Blake, aiding that escape, ends up a prisoner of the Federation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Delicate Balance, Part Two

"The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of."--Blaise Pascal

 

I

 

Base Commander Arlen, the highest-ranking Federation officer in permanent residence on the planet Gauda Prime, leaned across the table and poured her illustrious visitor a cup of tea. "How is the carimbula toxin collection program going, Commissioner?" she asked.

Servalan accepted the offered refreshment with a gracious smile. "It couldn't be going better. Now that we've figured out how to duplicate the creature's natural habitat in the laboratory, we can start breeding them off-world."

"I hope the handlers are drawing hazardous duty pay."

"But of course. And the families of the two who've died so far have received generous compensation."

"Yes, I caught the vis-play of the memorial service on the closed-circuit broadcast band for Federation personnel."

Servalan sipped her tea. "Inspiring, wasn't it?"

Arlen managed a weak smile. "Still its usefulness must be rather circumscribed."

"The toxin? You think so? Why?"

"Well, for starters, the way you used it on Kerr Avon. I mean, as an interrogation tool, it can only be employed as a threat. Because even if the prisoner changes his mind once the poison starts affecting him and is then willing to exchange information for a quicker death, he _can't_ \--since he can no longer speak."

Servalan put down her cup. "True enough. And for those susceptible to threats alone, it's rarely necessary to make the threat exotic--merely credible."

"So--"

"Use your imagination, Arlen. I've been considering utilizing the toxin as a form of execution for political criminals. We could force their families to watch, or maybe even display the whole process from start to finish on a public vis-cast. Tell me you don't think _that_ would constitute a deterrent to those contemplating a life of dissidence."

"To some maybe."

"To most. And then, of course, there's our newest discovery about the toxin: the one circumstance in which it _isn't_ lethal." Arlen's eyes widened in disbelief. "Oh, yes," the Commissioner continued. "Diluted to one one-hundredth of its natural potency and combined with a certain other substance, it turns out to have very surprising effects."

"Such as?"

Servlan smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that just yet. But if the research we're doing bears out our preliminary findings, it will revolutionize a very vital component of the Federation's defense arsenal."

"Good luck," Arlen returned. "Because if it doesn't, all you would seem to be left with is your scheme for deterrence. A rather small return on a rather large investment, if you ask me."

"On the contrary, Base Commander. A rather large return on a small investment."

"It won't deter the Roj Blakes and Kerr Avons of this galaxy," Arlen maintained. "Nothing will. Men like that can't be defeated in ordinary terms. Killed, of course, but not broken."

A scowl crossed Servlan's face. "Nonsense," she scoffed. "I don't believe in the myth of the unbreakable revolutionary hero, and I'm appalled to learn that you do."

"I'm only going by what you yourself told me, Commissioner. Your carimbula didn't break Avon."

Servalan leaned across the table. "Let me tell you something," she hissed. "I could break Blake and Avon both--if I had them both in custody at the same time." Her tone softened as the prospect of it turned annoyance to anticipatory delight. "It would be interesting, don't you think, to take it in turns and see which one of them gave in first to spare the other..." Then, shaking herself out of her sadistic reverie, "But it's funny you should mention Blake and Avon at this particular time. I had a report just this morning that Blake's people were spotted three days ago in the Fourth Sector."

Arlen's head shot up in alarm. "Fourth Sector?"

"Yes--on Helotrix."

"Oh." Servalan could have sworn that Arlen looked relieved. "Well, what were they doing there?"

"We're not exactly sure. We only know that they broke into Magnetrix Terminal in the company of the rebel leader Hunda and murdered the Federation security chief in cold blood."

"That doesn't sound like Blake to me," Arlen said. "Perhaps the report was in error."

"No, I don't think so." Servalan moved around with the cat-like slink which had long been her trademark. "One of the security chief's officers heard Hunda call his companion 'Avon'. And the physical description he provided matches."

"Ah, well, Avon--that's different," Arlen conceded.

"Where Avon lurks, can Blake be far away?" Servalan countered coyly. After a pause, "You realize, of course, that this is our first reliable confirmation that Blake's lot is no longer on Gauda Prime?"

"Demonstrably."

"SO HOW AND WHEN DID THEY GET OFF?"

"I don't know, Commissioner Sleer," Arlen said, shrinking back from the sudden outburst of temper.

"I know you don't know," Servalan taunted. "But don't you think it might be wise to find out?"

"I wouldn't know where to start," Arlen mumbled.

"What was that, Base Commander?" the other shouted. "I couldn't quite hear you."

Arlen flinched again. "I said I don't know where to start looking."

Servalan swung her arms wide. "Start with Blake's rebels on this planet," she suggested. " _Someone_ must have helped him and the others to escape. Someone must know where they were headed. Find that someone and make them tell us all about it." She slithered close to the smaller woman and snaked an arm around her shoulder. "Find Blake and Avon for me, Arlen," she purred seductively. "Find them, and I promise I'll see you promoted Space Commander."

*****

Blake sat alone in the Medical Unit, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes studying the computer-generated image of what was soon to become his new face. He stared at it intently, imagining himself to be looking into a mirror, trying hard to assimilate the visage as his own, to feel his consciousness housed inside it, rather than gazing at it...

He wished there were some parallel way he could accustom himself to the new voice that would go with the new face, but not even Docholli could predict in advance precisely what change in sound quality would result from the planned alteration of his vocal cords.

The base-to-ship intercom system sounded. "Blake, are you there?"

He flicked off the vis-screen and responded. "Yes, Tarrant, what is it?"

"Mrs. Malkar would like to come up and speak to you."

A private smile of anticipation formed on Blake's lips. "I'm on my way to the flight deck now," he said. "Let her through."

Moments later they were standing face-to-face, their first encounter since before the run to Helotrix. "How are the children?" he started.

"Deliriously happy to know their father is alive," she replied.

"Well, yes, of course, but I meant--"

"Getting better, thank you." She'd cut him off in mid-sentence, anticipating his thought before he'd finished it. It seemed a sign somehow that she intended to take control of the conversation. She strolled around the flight deck for a bit, then faced him again with a sigh. "Where in all the God-forsaken galaxy is this place, Blake?"

"You're better off not knowing," he said quietly.

"You mean _you're_ better off with my not knowing, don't you?"

"Yes." He met her unflinching gaze with comparable steadiness. "Tell me honestly: Has it been so bad? Have I or any of my people harmed you or your children?"

"Not harmed exactly, no," the woman conceded. "Inconvenienced. Gar and Mara's Palomian Fever--"

"Is something they were clearly incubating before they got here," he finished. "It would have happened, regardless."

"At home we'd have had medical care from Federation doctors."

"What--Docholli hasn't provided adequate care?"

"No, of course he has. He's been wonderful. Came down with it himself, the dear man. And Dayna's been a real help with JoJo through it all--at least until she hurt her hand." A small chuckle punctuated Mirabel's words. "I'm afraid my Ved is developing a bit of a crush on her."

It was too good an opening to pass up. "Don't worry," Blake said ironically. "She doesn't molest children either."

The woman looked stricken. "I'm so sorry about that," she said. "Your people have explained it all to me, the frame-up--"

"You couldn't have known," Blake put in gently.

"You risked your life to save my baby," Mirabel exclaimed. "You did it without even hesitating. They tell me you do that sort of thing frequently. Soolin is afraid that sooner or later you're going to walk into the jaws of death and not walk back out."

Blake shrugged philosophically. "Sooner or later everyone does that, Mirabel."

She smiled. "I must admit your people aren't quite what I expected."

He smiled back. "I daresay _you're_ not what _they_ expected either."

"I make an exception for Avon," she added quickly.

Blake laughed. "Most people make an exception for Avon."

"You?"

"I make a different _kind_ of exception for Avon." The tension had been broken. "What's on your mind, Mirabel?" the rebel leader asked.

She didn't answer right away. Instead she wandered over to the Captain's chair and fingered the back of it. "Is this where he sat?"

"I believe so."

She whirled around. "You've never actually met my husband, have you, Blake?"

"No, I haven't had that honor."

She looked down shyly. "You're just saying that to be polite."

"No," Blake insisted, and his voice drew her eyes back to his face. "From what I've been told, he's a man of great honor. I've seen his children--your children. It's obvious that they've been well-loved and deeply nurtured. He must care for them very much."

"More than for his life."

"I believe it. And yet he suffers this separation from them--and from you--for the sake of principle."

Mirabel seemed a bit thrown by that. "I didn't think you granted that a supporter of the Federation _could_ act from principle," she ventured.

"On the contrary," Blake declared, "I've known several such."

And that evoked an ambivalent laugh. "Only several?"

"Give me a break. Those aren't the circles I usually travel in."

Mirabel sat down in her husband's seat, signaling she was ready to talk in earnest, so the rebel leader sat down in the seat beside her. "All my life, Blake," she recounted, "all I've known is the Federation. I've always assumed it was synonymous with virtue and justice. I never questioned what I was taught, certainly never imagined the government would lie to the people deliberately and cynically and repeatedly."

"And now?"

"Now I'm full of confusion. They lied about you, Blake, and from what your people tell me, that's not an isolated example. Dayna's father was murdered in cold blood by the President and ex-Supreme Commander. Tarrant's brother died in a rigged combat game. Avon's been tortured more than once. _You've_ been tortured, had your memory forcibly altered--not to mention those poor children who actually _believe_ you raped them. Oh, and speaking of tampering with people's memories, what they made your man Docholli do along those lines is just ghastly."

"You like him, don't you--Docholli?"

"I trust him."

"Good."

"God help me, I'm beginning to trust you all." Blake fought hard to keep his delight at her words under control. Mirabel continued. "I said my children were happy that their father is alive. They're also terribly bewildered about why they can't see him. Oh, they're used to his being away for long stretches of time in his line of work, but they know this is different." She took a deep breath. "I've decided to make that tape you want me to for my husband, Blake--no, wait," she added, as his joy bubbled through the facade of control, "there are conditions."

He managed to contain himself. "I'm listening."

"I won't ask him to betray the Federation he still believes in," the woman said. "I certainly won't ask him to join the rebellion. I'll only tell him truthfully about the things I've come to learn and about the doubts it's aroused in me."

"As long as you don't mention the fact that you're with us, that you've even seen us here on Ryanec."

"Fair enough--as long as you trust me not to."

Blake chewed on his lip. "You don't want me to view the tape."

"No," Mirabel confirmed. "I believed my husband dead for six weeks, Blake. I've been separated from him for almost twice that long. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, if he'll ever see his children again. I'm entitled to that much privacy."

Blake pondered for a moment, then looked into her eyes. "If you give me your word that you won't reveal the fact that my people and I are on Ryanec, I give you my word that I won't look at the tape."

"Done." Mirabel stuck out her hand, and Blake took it.

"One more thing," he said, still holding that hand. "You _can_ see your husband again. If you're willing to join him where he is now, I see no reason why you and the children can't be taken there."

"To be imprisoned?" Mirabel queried.

"No more than you are here," Blake replied. "And once you're all together again, perhaps the prospect of new allegiances won't look so unpalatable to him. At least think about it, all right?" he urged, squeezing her fingers lightly.

"All right." She slipped out of his grasp as she rose to her feet. "I'd better be going now."

He nodded. "Any one of my people can get you the materials you need to make your tape."

She nodded. "Good."

"Oh, Mirabel." She turned back to find him suddenly standing at her side. He put his arm around her shoulder. "I think you should know that I'm going to be leaving here again for awhile."

She felt suddenly, unaccountably panic-stricken. "When?"

"Oh, not for a few days yet, but once I go, I may be gone for some time." He guided her towards the door of the spaceship as he spoke. "I just wanted to reassure you that you'll continue to be properly looked after. Should any unusual problems arise, you may go to Avon, confident that he will attend to them."

" _Avon_ will?" Mirabel made no attempt to conceal her skepticism.

"Yes," Blake said firmly.

"He's your second-in-command then."

A mischievous twinkle appeared in the rebel leader's eye. "As long as no one backs him into a corner and forces him to admit it."

Mirabel shook her head. "Strange army you run here." She stepped through the door, then turned back. "I'll have the tape ready for you by tomorrow morning."

As the door slid shut behind her, the man on the ship broke into a broad grin. "Yes!" he exclaimed, his clenched fists slicing the air in triumphant joy, "yes!" For Roj Blake, it was moments like these which made all those other moments of tedium and terror worthwhile.

*****

"Oh please, Soolin," begged the boy, blocking her path. "Why _can't_ I take Dayna her food this time?"

Sitting together at a worktable with Orac some seven meters away, Blake and Avon exchanged amused glances. "Watch out, Del," Avon muttered under his breath. "The competition's closing on you. You may no longer _be_ the youngest and the most handsome--"

'Well, for one thing," Soolin replied, "how do you expect to carry a breakfast tray with JoJo in your arms?"

"I don't," Ved said cheerfully. "I expect to give him to _you_ to hold. Come on, Soolin, it won't take that long."

The woman began to waver. "Well, if you promise to come straight back to my room--" His face brightened. "I mean it, Ved. No sneak visits through the isolation window with your brother and sister."

"Yes, okay, sure, I promise." The exchange was effected with no small clumsiness, and the youth hurried off down the corridor, carrying the tray.

"I mean it, Ved," Soolin called after him again. "I've got places to go, people to see, targets to practice shooting at--" A loud wail from the hefty bundle in her arms claimed her attention. "What's bothering you, JoJo?" she murmured, repositioning the child. Then her hand came away from the seat of his pants, and she stared at it with a look of disgust frozen on her face. "Oh, no!"

Blake broke into a stream of robust laughter. "Don't say a word, not a word," Soolin snarled at him. He laughed even louder, and she managed with her one partly free hand to extend her middle finger in his direction.

"I never realized people from Gauda Prime even knew that gesture, did you, Avon?" Blake remarked, as Soolin hauled JoJo down the corridor with less than tender solicitude.

"Not exactly the motherly type, is she?" Avon responded with a coy smile.

His playfulness still aroused, Blake replied, "She sounded motherly enough when she was cleaning out your wound on Gauda Prime."

The humor vanished from Avon's face. "You could hear her?"

"Well, not the words, just the tone."

"You could hear me then."

Blake hadn't really intended to let that slip out. "I'm sorry, Avon."

But it was too late to stem the explosion. "What the hell for? _I'm_ certainly not. If you were stupid enough to sit around listening, you deserved every bit of it. Did you imagine I sent you away to protect my pride?"

Blake looked deep into the other man's eyes. "Not for one minute," he said steadily.

Avon reeled from the gaze as if it had been a blow. Found out again! Would Blake's relentless stalking of his soul _never_ cease? "I'm warning you, Blake, one of these days--oh, what's the use? Yes, Soolin was adequate that morning."

" _Adequate_?"

"Yes, technically competent and psychologically--acceptable."

"Meaning, I suppose, that she walked a fine line between comfort and dispassion."

"Meaning that she knew _what_ lines not to cross--unlike some people."

Blake shook his head in amusement, then said, "She's a wonderful woman, Avon."

That evoked a snort. "If she's so wonderful, why have you rejected her?"

Blake looked appalled. "I _haven't_ rejected her!"

"No?"

"No!"

"You refuse to love her."

"I _do_ love her."

Avon smiled. "'Pure and chaste from afar'," he quoted dramatically.

Blake stared straight ahead. "It has to be that way, Avon."

"Like with Jenna?"

"Like with Jenna."

"Don't you ever want more than that for yourself?"

The other man shrugged. "I don't allow myself to think about it that way."

"You're a bloody saint, Blake--do you know that?"

The rebel leader laughed. "No, I _don't_ know that. And _you're_ the only person I've ever met who can make the word 'saint' sound like 'bastard'. Do you know _that_? Anyway, it's academic," he added, after a pause. "Soolin is with Deva now."

"Right," Avon drawled sardonically. "Odd couple, don't you think?"

"No."

"You don't think she's a bit much for him?"

Blake sighed with exasperation. "I'm not even sure which one you mean to insult with that remark."

"And why do you suppose they're together?"

"How about the usual reason--they're in love."

"Oh, they're in love all right," Avon agreed. "But not with each other."

"That's absurd, Avon."

"Consoling each other over the one they can't have? Yes, it is, rather..."

"You're being ridiculous."

"No, Blake, _you're_ being obtuse. But then you've always had a blind spot with respect to the way other people feel about you."

Suddenly Blake cleared his throat and gave his companion a discreet nudge--for suddenly they were no longer alone. "Good morning, Mirabel," he greeted the new arrival.

"Good morning, Blake," she replied. "Avon."

"Mrs. Malkar," he acknowledged with cold formality.

"I've brought you the tape," she announced, holding it out in front of her.

Blake's hands closed around it as if it were a sacred gift. "Thank you," he said softly.

"I've also done some thinking about the rest of what we discussed. I'd like to discuss it further--"

He stayed her with a hand gesture. He was looking at his chrono, calculating the time difference to Iridian. "I'd like to send this first, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind at all."

She didn't understand. "That means I have to ask you to step out for a few minutes," he clarified.

Suspicion flickered in her eyes. "Why?"

Oh, he hoped she was not starting to doubt that he'd keep his part of their bargain, not wondering if he was sending her away so he could violate that bargain... "Because I don't want you finding out _where_ I'm sending it," he answered truthfully.

She seemed to believe him and yet to be displeased. "We really do need to talk some more," she said. "Please call me back here as soon as you've sent the tape." Before he could respond again, she turned on her heel and walked briskly away.

Blake moved towards Orac and began making the necessary connections to activate Avon's anti-detection device. "Wait a minute," Avon said, motioning towards the tape. "What's on that?"

"How should I know?"

"You haven't looked at it?"

"She just brought it."

"But I thought--" A look of confusion crossed Avon's face. "Never mind. But surely you're _going_ to look at it?"

Infuriatingly casual, giving most of his attention to the technical problem at hand, Blake replied, "No, I agreed not to."

Avon's eyes widened. "You _agreed_? And just what, may I ask, did you get in exchange for that agreement?"

Blake finally deigned to face him. " _Her_ agreement not to compromise us."

"And you're satisfied with that? Blake, she's our prisoner."

"She's our guest," was the immediate retort.

Avon shook his head. "You may have convinced yourself of that by now, but I can assure you you haven't convinced her."

"Oh, really?" Blake countered. "Based on what? Your long heart-to-heart talks with her? _I_ spoke with her last night at great length, and I'm satisfied I can trust her."

"This is insane, Blake--even for you. I insist we examine that tape before you transmit it."

"I gave her my word, Avon."

"Well, you didn't give her mine." He made a sudden, but unsuccessful, grab for the tape, after which the rebel leader simply held it behind his back. "Blake, for all we know, the tape says: 'Blake and his people are on Ryanec 5. If you escape from your captors, alert the nearest Federation base.'"

"It doesn't say that."

"How do you _know_?"

"I know."

"Blake, it's a bloody miracle you're still alive and walking around free," Avon sputtered.

"So you keep telling me." The rebel leader calmly finished with the technical connections and inserted the computer's activator key. "Orac, I have a job for you to do."

*I'm already doing a job for you,* the familiar, irksome voice protested. *Or have you forgotten that you asked me to put everything not directly related to base functioning and security on hold until I'd completed formulating your false identity for the Pylene-50 caper?*

At the word "caper", Avon burst out laughing.

"No, Orac, I haven't forgotten," Blake said, smiling, too. "This will only take a few minutes of your time. I'd like you to send a copy of the tape I've primed for transmission to the Purple Sphere computer network on Iridian."

*I must point out that your request constitutes an inefficient and wasteful use of my superior capabilities.*

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it does, but it wasn't a request; it was a directive, and I'd like you to carry it out immediately. Do you think you can manage that?"

*Oh, very well.* As Orac transmitted the content of Mirabel's tape to Avalon's base, Avon surreptitiously pressed the record button to produce another copy. Blake never saw him do it. When Orac reported that the task was completed, Blake retrieved the original tape.

Moments later, having recalled Mirabel as she'd requested, he handed it back to her. "All done," he said cheerfully. "Your husband will have your message very soon now."

"Thank you."

"Thank _you_. So what was it you wanted to discuss further?"

The woman glanced uneasily at Avon, but then remembered what Blake had told her about him and decided it was best to include him in the discussion, especially if Blake was not going to be around for awhile. "I've been giving some thought--quite a lot, actually--to your idea that the children and I might be allowed to join my husband. But I'm frankly reluctant--particularly where the children are concerned--to take off for another planet, knowing nothing about it."

"Prudent of you," Avon commented. "Would that all of us were so sensible about not rushing headlong into unknown territory."

"That's why it annoyed me when you wouldn't let me stay here during the transmission," Mirabel continued. "Since I have to be told about the planet where my husband is being held sometime before making my decision, why put it off?"

"But that's just it," Blake endeavored to explain. "You _can't_ be told _anything_ about it in advance. You can't even know where it is when you leave here."

Mirabel was aghast. "Then when _do_ I find out where it is?"

"When you arrive there."

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"Why?"

Blake hesitated fractionally, then replied, "Because there's always the chance, however slight, that something could go wrong. Your husband is in the company of another band of rebels. The Federation doesn't know--and mustn't know--who or where they are. If you should be arrested and questioned--tortured--or if your children are tortured--you won't be able to reveal what you don't know."

"Blake!" erupted the voice beside him from between clenched teeth.

"The lady asked, Avon."

Mirabel was trembling from head to toe, all the fire that she had initially displayed when Blake first invaded her home once more evident in her face. "Let me understand this," she said. "If _you_ were arrested and they tortured my children in front of you for information you could disclose, you would keep silent?"

Blake met her accusing gaze without flinching. "I would have to," he said simply.

Avon covered his face with his hands and groaned. "We could _use_ some of that ability to keep silent _now_ , Blake."

"You must excuse Avon," the rebel leader said. "He finds my honesty disconcerting."

"Yes, well, 'disconcerting' doesn't begin to describe what _I_ find you!" Mirabel thundered. "You kidnapped my husband, killed three of his crew, stole his ship, faked its destruction--and then you came here and risked your life to let me know _he_ was alive, and risked it again to save my little boy--and _now_ you tell me you'd let that same little boy die horribly to protect your criminal--excuse me, rebel--cohorts. What am I to think? What am I to do?"

Blake took it all in without protest or reciprocal animosity. "That's what you have to decide," he declared quietly. "I realize you don't have much practice in the art of free choice, but if you're going to live as a free family from this point on, you'd better start learning it."

Her face flushed, Mirabel shot bolts of fire back and forth between the two men with her eyes. Then, without uttering another word, she tore from the room.

Avon turned to Blake, seething. "I can't believe you did that."

"What should I have done?"

"Almost anything but what you chose to do."

"What I said to her was the truth, Avon."

"And since when has that become your primary requirement for communication? Blake, the scenario you painted is too improbable to merit consideration."

"It _is_ improbable," the rebel leader agreed. "And, hopefully, when she's had a chance to calm down, she will realize that. When this business with the Pylene-50 plant is over and done with, when Docholli is ready to return to Iridian, the Malkars can travel with him. Mirabel trusts him; she has a rapport with him; it will make the journey into the unknown easier for her. So, whatever you do, don't let on to her that Docholli is to _be_ their travelling companion. I want that revelation to come at the appropriate moment, when it's most needed and will have the greatest impact."

"Honesty, Avon--at all costs, honesty," taunted the computer tech.

"This is different," Blake maintained.

"Why? Because she hasn't asked?"

"Partly."

"And the other part? No, I'm really curious to know what you call this particular bit of manipulation."

Blake sighed. "I call it laying the groundwork for providing some peace of mind to an innocent bystander victimized by our war." Then he gathered up the materials he'd been working with earlier and walked away.

Avon caught his breath in amazement. "Oh, that's good, Blake," he muttered to the empty room. "That's very good." His voice mounted to a pitch of near hysteria. "You could split strands of Kairopan silk with a distinction like that!"

Left alone, he sat down again at the worktable. "I'm warning you, Blake," he repeated to himself, "one of these days--" His gaze fell upon the computer, and he suddenly remembered the precaution he'd taken earlier. "Orac," he said, "there's something I want you to do for me."

*Be advised that if interruptions continue at this rate, I will find it impossible to complete the construction of Blake's false identity on schedule.*

"Yes, well, if _Blake_ continues at this rate, he may not survive long enough to _need_ it." Avon paused to calm his breathing and collect his thoughts. "Lock the doors," he commanded the computer and could hear the characteristic sliding sound even as he spoke. "No one must be allowed to enter this room until I've finished. There's a recording of that tape you transmitted to Iridian a short while ago. Call it up and play it back for me. All of it."

*****

Three days later the "east wing infirmary" was empty of patients and officially shut down. Docholli was available again, so Blake scheduled an anti-Pylene-50 immunization session. The delay didn't really matter since the antidote was only intended to guard against an exposure which could only happen away from the safety of the base, and no one had been off-base for the past three days.

No one unprotected, at any rate. After Vila recovered from his culinary indiscretion, he and Tarrant had taken a quick, _incognito_ teleport trip to "the other side", as Avon dubbed the settled and civilized sector of the planet: Tarrant to observe and report on the layout of Ryanec's main commercial spaceport--a transitory, but crucial, element in the initial stage of Blake's overall plan; Vila to "acquire" various and sundry supplies for the base.

The delay in Blake's surgery, on the other hand, mattered a lot. The plan called for "Dr. Ari Janssen" (the wholly fictitious, but now meticulously documented, persona which Orac had invented) to "arrive" on Ryanec aboard the space cruiser _Aguilar_ , out of Morphaniel. He would then proceed straight away to the Pylene-50 manufacturing plant, where he had been hired by the plant's director as a "consultant" to investigate the strange episode of "contamination" which had plagued the facility weeks earlier. Of course, while making these arrangments, the director had had no idea that he was interacting with a computer.

In any event, the _Aguilar_ was due to make planetfall in three time units, so Blake had to be ready by then to be surreptitiously planted on board. (Orac had placed Dr. Janssen's name on the passenger manifest.) Docholli wanted his patient to have at least one full day to recover from the effects of the reconstructive surgery he'd be going through--and he wanted one additional day for himself to fully recover his strength before tackling the delicate operation. Because of his age, the good doctor had been hardest hit by the Palomian Fever, requiring complete bedrest at the peak of it--in maddening contrast to the Malkar children, who'd had to be restrained from holding a "who can jump higher" contest on their respective infirmary beds...

The upshot of it all was that there remained little margin for maneuvering: Today--the day of the scheduled immunizations--was Docholli's day of interim convalescence. Tomorrow would be-- _had_ to be--the day his skilled hands and instruments turned Roj Blake into Ari Janssen.

At the moment, the soon-to-be Dr. Janssen was heading down the corridor toward his meeting with Docholli and Deva, carrying Hunda's gift from Helotrix. "Careful," he gasped, as Vila, rounding a corner, nearly knocked the vial from his hands.

"Sorry, Blake," the thief muttered.

"You break this, and I'll make a necklace of your teeth," the rebel leader promised.

"I know, and then Avon will strangle me with it," Vila sighed.

"How's the stomach, Vila?" mocked a familiar voice.

"How's the hand, Dayna?" he taunted back at the woman just emerging from her room.

"Be nice, children," Blake admonished.

"Children!" they erupted simultaneously.

"Well, if you're going to act like that--"

"Sorry, Blake," Vila repeated.

"Sorry, Blake," Dayna echoed.

"That's better," he declared without any obvious trace of humor and continued on his way.

The minute he was gone, Dayna stuck out her tongue and stuck her thumbs in her ears, wiggling the remaining eight fingers contemptuously. Vila responded by placing his hands, one in front of the other at the level of his nose, left thumb touching the tip of it, right thumb touching the left pinky finger, and wiggled _his_ fingers likewise.

*****

Docholli and Deva were already waiting for Blake when he arrived. And there was someone else with them, someone Blake hadn't expected. "Avon, what are _you_ doing here?" he exclaimed.

Avon was feeling a trifle subdued. If he'd considered himself capable of it, he might have said "ashamed." He had viewed Mirabel's tape to Captain Malkar from beginning to end and failed to find the betrayal he'd been sure awaited him there. Instead he'd seen only a woman passionately in love with her husband, pouring out her joy at discovering he was alive in words of tender intimacy no one else should have been privy to (least of all himself, for whom memory of such feelings was dim and distant and disavowed)... Mirabel had gone on to talk about the children--each in turn in loving detail--and finally about her growing sense of dis-ease with lifelong assumptions about the rectitude of the Federation. Rebels who knew of the true fate of the _Zebulon_ had "gotten a message" to her, she said, and had agreed to send this message in return. From them, she'd heard disturbing stories of Federation atrocities, and she was inclined to believe they might be true. She never said "Roj Blake." She never said she was with the rebels currently--only that they'd indicated to her a possibility for the family to be together again. In short, Mirabel had kept faith with Blake, and while Avon did not regret checking up on her, he was shaken by Blake's uncanny ability to have known she would...

Subdued, then--and because he was, he did not immediately pick up on the edge of displeasure in Blake's voice, did not immediately realize that Blake would have preferred him _not_ to be there. "I want to enjoy one of your few unambiguous successes," he answered.

The rebel leader glowered at the insult embedded within the compliment. "You first, Docholli," he said, turning his back on Avon. "If you trust a mere layman to do this to you, that is."

The cybersurgeon rolled up his sleeve. "I'd prefer a lay _woman_ ," he teased, "but since she doesn't appear to be available--" The instrument was already delivering the drug to his system. "Not bad," he said.

"I've heard that back in the days of the Old Calendar, they used something called hypodermic needles," Deva related. "It used to be painful enough to make children cry."

"How ghastly," Avon murmured with a malicious smile. "I can think of a brood I'd like to try it out on."

Docholli was now rolling down his sleeve. "So good, in fact," he continued, "that I'm going to head back to my quarters and let you give Deva his as well."

Alarm flickered in Blake's eyes. "Why? Aren't you feeling all right?"

"No, no, fine," the doctor reassured him. "Just a little tired. I'll be perfectly well by tomorrow morning, I promise you."

"I might have known that wasn't an outburst of humanitarian concern," Avon commented to no one in particular.

"I'll be there," Blake called after the departing surgeon. "First thing in the morning.  All right, Deva, your turn."

The Gauda Prime native extended his arm. The antidote was administered, and as Deva rolled down _his_ sleeve, Avon observed that Blake was packing up the equipment. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked. The rebel leader stared at him. "Aren't you forgetting that we have a third person in need of inoculation?"

"Hardly," Blake replied in a thoroughly casual tone, "but we don't have a third dose."

"What!" Avon exploded, and Deva whirled around with only slightly less shock.

"You heard me," Blake said calmly.

"There were only two doses," Avon stated drily.

"That's right. That's all Hunda had left."

"And you didn't _take_ one? You're mad!"

"Docholli had to have the first dose, Avon. I gave him and Avalon my word that I'd protect him."

"Even though he never leaves here and is in no danger. All right, what about Deva? Why _Deva_ before you?"

"Why did you put the others down on GP before yourself when _Scorpio_ was about to crash?" Blake countered.

"How the hell do you know that detail?"

"Someone told me."

"Same person who told you about my pursuit of Shrinker, no doubt."

"Blake, you should have said something," Deva protested.

"I was afraid you'd refuse the antidote," the rebel leader returned bluntly.

"I might have done, indeed," the other agreed, eliciting a "you see?" gesture from the man. "Blake, I had a right to a voice in the decision." His own voice rose in hurt anger as he spoke.

"Ah, dawns the light at last," Avon exclaimed. "You finally grasp our Fearless Leader's brand of democracy--except when autocracy is more convenient."

"Blake?" Deva repeated.

"I'm not going to apologize for doing what I thought best," Blake maintained.

"Excuse me. I'd better get out of here before I say something we both regret."

Avon, of course, felt no such constraint. In Deva's absence, he turned on Blake, unleashing the full force of his fury. "You're really insane, do you know that? You're planning to walk utterly unprotected right into the lion's den."

"Where I will have access to the antidote," Blake argued. "Where I'll be surrounded by more of it than I'll know what to do with."

"That's still a conjecture," Avon retorted. "If the antidote isn't available at the plant--"

"It will be."

"But if it _isn't_ \--"

"It _will_ be."

Blake had expressed the same irrational confidence that Aristo would have the anti-radiation drugs needed by several of the _Liberator_ crew after their visit to the planet Cephlon. Actually _more_ irrational, for there'd been less basis to assume so then than there was for his present assumption. And Blake had been right then. No, Avon corrected grimly to himself, Blake had been lucky.

"All right," he started over, "let's suppose the antidote _is_ being manufactured at the plant. They could still catch you _before_ you find it and have a chance to administer it to yourself. The risk is unacceptable."

"It is not unacceptable because _I_ accept it."

More deja vu. From Travis's trap on Exbar this time. "It is unacceptable for the rest of us, Blake," Avon said. "You'll betray us."

"Never."

"You won't have a choice once they get the drug into you."

"They won't get the drug into me," Blake stated flatly.

A chill ran up and down Avon's spine. "You didn't think much of that solution when Deva proposed it."

"That was different. We were on Gauda Prime. There wasn't any Pylene-50 there. We had destroyed the only supply of it ourselves."

"So you'll kill yourself."

"If I have to to protect the rest of you, of course. How can you doubt it?"

"I don't, Blake. I don't doubt it." Avon paused and took a deep breath. "But I can't allow it."

The rebel leader shrugged. "What choice is there?"

"Now that you've been so stupidly noble about the antidote, only one. _You_ can't be the person to infiltrate the plant."

"Then who?" Blake demanded mockingly. "It has to be someone with sufficient scientific background to play the part of Ari Janssen, to fool them..." His voice trailed off as their eyes met and he realized what the other man was proposing. "Avon, come on. You don't even believe in the plan."

"Since when has a little detail like that ever stopped me?"

"Avon, I appreciate your concern for my safety--"

"Oh, no, Blake," Avon cut him off. "You've got it wrong. It's not your safety I'm thinking about. It's _my sanity_. No way am I letting you get yourself killed and saddle me with the responsibility for leading this lot again."

A mixture of amazement and amusement shone in Blake's eyes. "You're proposing to do this so you won't have to take over for me like before?"

"You got it."

For the briefest instant, Blake seemed to be actually weighing the idea. "No, it's preposterous," he said finally. "All the arrangements are in place, and they were built around me as the man going in. Docholli's reconstructive surgery has been designed for my body, my facial structure."

"So we send him back to the drawing board, so to speak. Orac need only alter the physical description of Dr. Janssen in the bogus records he's created."

Blake shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. It's out of the question."

Avon looked pained. "I can't change your mind? You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Then _I'm_ sorry." He turned away, hiding his face from Blake, fighting for mastery over his feelings. When he turned back, he was the picture of control. "All right, in that case, I have a request. I want a private briefing with you, Blake. I want to go over every detail of your plan from start to finish. If there are any security loopholes in it, the time to close them is _before_ you leave the base."

"All right."

"I mean it, Blake-- _every_ detail."

"All right, Avon," the rebel leader repeated placatingly. "Come to my quarters after dinner tonight, and we'll do it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The tension in the air between them as they separated was so thick they could have cut it with a laser knife. Left by himself, Avon felt a familiar, sickening sensation slowly stealing over him, like a trapdoor snapping shut around his soul, squeezing the life out of it. He hated nothing more than to be hemmed in this way--his precious, precarious illusion of freedom (of freedom from _Blake_ , from _caring_ about Blake) leaking out of him drop by drop, trickling down his mind like the beads of perspiration forming on his face.

He'd felt like this that day on Gauda Prime--when Blake had left it to him to interrogate Arlen, not only keeping his own hands clean (which was marginally forgivable), but forcing Avon to promise to keep _his_ clean as well (which was wholly _un_ forgivable). So, confronted with the need to extract vital information from their flagrantly uncooperative prisoner, he had resorted to a devious and desperate ploy: he had burst the bubble of Arlen's proud fantasy of defiance under torture by shoving the sight and sound and smell of torture down her throat--inscribed on his own throbbing flesh...

He never imagined that he might find himself in a parallel situation again: with his back pinned tightly to an invisible wall, threatening to crush him as mercilessly as the tangible wall Servalan had wished on him in that cellar back on Earth--where _his_ proud fantasy of pure, unsullied love had died in a hail of lies and gunfire...

Yet here it was, and here he was, and there was no escaping it--as there'd been no escaping from Servalan's makeshift "neural amplifier", driving wave after wave of agony into his helpless body... Later, left alone in the cold and the dark, shaking with fever and waiting for Servalan's viper to bring him a painful, protracted death, he had sobbed out a confession of awe and caring for the man he now silently cursed. And the words of that confession became the words of that curse as they twisted their way past his lips in an angry, grotesque parody of their original meaning: "I don't deserve you, Blake. I _really_ don't deserve you, Blake. What the hell did I ever do to deserve you, Blake?"

*****

"Are you angry with him?" Soolin asked, sitting before the mirror in her nightgown, combing out the strands of her long, golden hair.

"Can I ever stay angry with him for long?" Deva answered. "He might think I am, though. I must make a point of speaking to him before he leaves. I wouldn't want him walking into all that with some needless worry about me on his mind."

"Avon's right though this time, you know." She laid aside the comb and started turning down the bed. "It's madness for Blake to think of walking into that plant without protection. It puts all of us in jeopardy."

"He'd never betray us Soolin," Deva said passionately. "No matter what they did to him. Not Blake."

"Well, I know he wouldn't _want to_ , love. And I agree he'd never willfully spare himself at our expense. But if they shoot him full of Pylene-50--"

"He's convinced he'll be able to get the antidote _there_ ," Deva argued. "He's believed that since GP, you know that."

"Doesn't mean he's right."

"Doesn't mean he isn't."

She stretched out invitingly on the sheets. "Stop obsessing. Come to bed."

He climbed in beside her, still preoccupied. "I just wish he'd been upfront about the shortage, given me the chance to let him have first crack at it. If he's right about the antidote being manufactured there, he'll be able to get plenty--enough for the whole Malkar family. This way I feel--" He broke off, staring at the spot on his arm where the drug had been administered.

"Like you're taking his air again?" Soolin ventured.

Deva nodded.

She stroked his face. "Pay attention here, love."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Oh, there... Oh, yes... Oh, my..."

A series of giggles and moans rose from beneath the covers as the two hidden figures wrestled playfully in carnal embrace.

*****

"Are you angry with Roj, Mother?" the boy asked.

Mirabel heaved an inexplicable sigh. "Oh, Ved."

"He saved JoJo's life."

"I know."

"He told us Dad is alive."

"I _know_."

"Then I don't understand."

"I don't either, baby," the woman murmured, embracing him. "Really I don't."

The door to their quarters slid open, and Vila entered with Gar and Mara. They'd made friends through the isolation window when they'd been confined together in Docholli's hastily assembled infirmary. Vila had enchanted the children by performing magic tricks for them. When he'd teleported to "the other side" with Tarrant, they'd called for him incessantly, and now that they were all fit and free again, they hounded him relentlessly, pleading for more.

"Show's over for the day, and that's final," he admonished firmly, delivering them into the custody of their mother. "This is harder work than thievery. They're bored, you know. They have nothing to do with themselves here."

"I must remember to pick a more exciting resort next time we go on holiday," Mirabel said.

Vila's face wilted. "Sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," she returned, patting his arm. "You've been wonderful with them, Vila, really you have."

"Anytime, Pretty Lady." He peered into the makeshift crib in the corner of the room. "I see this one's asleep."

"Yes, finally," the mother laughed in weary memory.

Ved stepped forward to assume charge of his younger siblings. "Off to bed with you two," he directed.

"Do we _have to_?" Gar protested, looking at his mother.

"Yes, you have to," she said sharply.

"Can't we hear a story first?" Mara pleaded.

"No!" Mirabel barked.

"I want to hear the story about how the brave Federation space captain saved a whole planet from Delugian Sea Monsters," Gar declared.

"That wasn't a space captain," Mara corrected disdainfully. "That was a rebel leader."

Mirabel's eyebrows lifted in mild disapproval. Ved herded his brother and sister towards the bathroom to get them ready for bed. Vila shrugged apologetically. "Poetic license?" he offered.

The woman's mouth curled into a small smile. "I suppose I can't fault you people for having your own folklore." She walked with him to the door.

"Can I ask you something?" he ventured timidly.

"What?"

"It's probably none of my business, but I can't help noticing that things between you and Blake have been--well, strained--the past couple of days."

"Ah, that." He looked at her expectantly. "Have you asked Blake about it?"

"Matter of fact I did."

"And what did he say?" Surprised--even startled--to discover how much she wanted to hear the answer.

"He said you had some serious thinking to do and that he was giving you space to do it in."

Mirabel caught her breath. That sounded so impossibly--respectful--and her heart leaped to embrace it. "When is Blake leaving?" she asked.

Vila's eyes widened. "You _know_ about that?"

"Only that he's going _somewhere_ \--perhaps for quite a long time. I assume it's somewhere dangerous."

"Safe assumption," Vila put in--and then frowned at the verbal contradiction.

"Naturally, Blake hasn't told me any _more_ than that. He's very particular about people not knowing things so they can't disclose them."

"Eh?"

"Nothing. But you can tell me _when_ he's going, can't you?"

"Day after tomorrow," Vila obliged. "Tomorrow he has his--he gets ready for the trip, and the next day he leaves."

Mirabel nodded tightly. "Thank you."

The door slid open, and Vila stepped out into the corridor. "Wonder how he's going to be able to get any sleep tonight," he mused, half to her, half to himself. " _I_ sure wouldn't be able to if it were me about to--" He stopped himself in mid-sentence. "Well, better let you get the little ones to bed." They traded awkward smiles, and he left.

Back inside the family's quarters, Mirabel leaned against the wall. Sounds of running water drifted distantly through her mind. Even when Ved emerged from the bathroom with Mara and Gar in the pajamas Vila had brought back from his trip to "the other side", only a fraction of her consciousness acknowledged their presence. Most of her was a universe away--in a bedroom several corridors away--with a mysterious man who tormented and tantalized her in a manner she had no words for, in a corner of her soul she'd never even known existed.

*****

That night as Deva and Soolin made love...

As Mirabel's children slept and she stood watch over them, finding no solace for her embattled heart...

Dayna Mellanby sat at Orac's worktable. It was her turn at security shift, and she was grateful for the timing of it, for she knew she'd never have been able to sleep anyway. She was far too excited over Blake's upcoming strike at the Pylene-50 plant and far too worried over the danger the lone warrior would be courting in launching it.

*

Tarrant hung around with her--they often kept one another company when one of them drew night duty--and while he usually used such occasions to press his perennial flirtation, tonight he was alternately silent and fitful. Blake had come to mean a lot to him in the few short months they'd been together, and though he'd allowed himself to be swept up in the rebel leader's enthusiasm for this grandiose scheme, he harbored secret doubts about the outcome. Tarrant had been with the Federation too long to have any illusions about the odds against defeating it--and had been with Avon long enough to be on intimate terms with the hazards of trying...

*

Docholli saw Avon slip out of Blake's quarters late that night. The two men had gone there together immediately after dinner for what Avon had called a last-minute strategy session and briefing--evidently it had been a meticulously thorough one. Docholli did not see where Avon went after that; he was too preoccupied with his own haunting memories of the thirty wretched souls he had stripped of _their_ memories at the Federation's behest. "It's not my mind you're erasing, Docholli," Blake had whispered to him softly once, reading the anguish in the cybersurgeon's eyes. "It's only my face and only for a little while." He tried to convince himself of that now, but "mind" or "face", it was still identity-tampering to the doctor's tender conscience. "Blake wants this," he muttered to himself over and over. "He wants this, you fool, he wants this.  He's not a _victim_..." But Blake _had_ been a victim of mind-rape once. Lord, what courage that man had to spend himself so unstintingly. What courage and what love. It was enough to melt the most cynical of souls just to know a man like that existed. It _has_ melted the most cynical of souls, Docholli thought, smiling...

*

The "most cynical of souls" did not return to his room after leaving Blake's. But since the security monitors did not extend into the individual sleeping quarters without the explicit electronic authorization of the occupant, Dayna did not know this. The arrangement was a concession to privacy--one which Blake rarely utilized, but which Avon never failed to utilize. Therefore, Dayna did not consider it strange when she could not scan his living quarters and never for one moment stopped to suspect what his inner demons were driving Kerr Avon to do...

*

Throughout the entire base that night, only Roj Blake was free of care. Blake slept the deep, untroubled sleep of an innocent child and dreamt sweet, innocent dreams of golden boyhood days with Uncle Ushton and cousin Inga: days when the inequities of Alpha privilege had not yet begun to assail his mind, when dissidence and revolution and the price one might pay for embracing these still lay in the far distant future.

*****

Physically well-rested and psychologically well-fortified for the adventure upon which he was soon to embark, Blake strode purposefully down the corridor towards the area where the _Zebulon_ was docked. Suddenly, from nowhere, a voice leapt out at him. "P-sst, Blake! Over here."

Startled, he turned in the direction of the sound. "Avon? What are you doing?"

The computer tech was crouching in a corner as if to conceal himself. Now he slowly stood up, but remained pressed flat against the wall. "Over here," he repeated. Mystified, Blake joined him. "I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"What's going on? Why are you whispering?"

"I don't want anyone else to hear us--or see us. I don't want to alarm the others."

"About what?" the rebel leader fairly shouted. "About what?" he repeated in a whisper.

"I'm afraid we have a problem, Blake--a serious one. I'm afraid we're not alone on this base."

"What are you talking about--not alone?"

"Just that. There's someone else down here with us--probably has been since before we arrived."

"That's ridiculous!" Blake scoffed. "Look, if this is your idea of a bon voyage joke, I don't think it's very funny. And if this is some last-minute attempt to delay my surgery--"

"It's no joke, Blake," Avon insisted. "I've found where he's been living."

"He?"

"Well, he or she--but almost certainly humanoid from the appearance of his lair."

The rebel leader cracked a smile. "Well, I'm relieved to hear that."

"You still don't believe me. All right, come with me, and I'll show you."

"Avon, I haven't time. Docholli's waiting for me right now on the ship."

"I know, but this won't take long, and it's important. Blake, you _will_ grant, won't you, that it's a non-trivial matter if we have an unknown resident on this base?"

For the first time, the rebel leader looked concerned. "You're serious, aren't you? You really believe there's an intruder in our midst--"

"I don't just 'believe' it, Blake. I _know_ it."

"Yes, all right. I'll come with you." Blake cast a conflicted glance in the direction of the ship as Avon wrapped an arm around his shoulder and steered him away. "Where are we going exactly?"

"You remember the mine shaft in the north wing?"

"That old tunnel we discovered the first week we were here?"

"Yes. We decided to block it off because we saw no use for it and it was so far removed from everything else and a possible safety hazard."

"Fortuitous planning, considering that we have children here with us now. Avon, you're not going to tell me someone's living in that mine shaft?"

"Be patient. You'll see for yourself soon enough."

As they approached the entrance to the tunnel, Avon drew his gun and looked cautiously in all directions. "Give me a hand with this, will you?" he requested, indicating the huge stone the rebels had placed at the opening to block it off. Together the two men heaved it aside, then with Avon leading the way, began crawling on their hands and knees through the long, narrow passage.

They emerged out the other end into a small room, barely larger than a standard Federation prison cell. But it resembled more the "cell" of an Old Calendar Earth monastery, the private meditation chamber of some religious devotee: bare walls, a single light source, a pillow and some blankets piled up in one corner of the floor with a stack of books beside them; a couple of large jugs of water, a few packages of food concentrate and a chamber pot in the opposite corner.

Blake stared in amazement. "I don't believe it! You were right. But there's clearly no one here now. Who could this be for?"

"It's for you, Blake," Avon said. The rebel leader whirled around to see his friend standing by the door, aiming a _Scorpio_ clip-gun at his midsection.

"Are you out of your bloody mind?" he exploded.

"Very probably," Avon replied.

It was not the first time they had faced each other with a loaded weapon between them, but it was surely the most unexpected. Blake's eyes became points of fire, and he started to move forward.

"Stand still!"

He stopped in his tracks, glaring at the other man. "Which magazine is that, Avon?" he asked. "What is it loaded with?"

Avon glared back. "Take one more step in my direction without permission and you may never find out," he said menacingly. "Now, sit down!"

Blake lowered himself to the floor and folded his arms across his chest defiantly. "I'm waiting for an explanation," he snarled.

"All you need to know is that I've rigged this door with an automatic timelock. It will open in 48 Earth hours. Any attempt to tamper with it or otherwise break out of here before that time will result in the rupture of several hidden canisters of sono-vapor. I've made provision for your basic needs, as you can see, and I've made sure the ventilation will be adequate. The books are the writings of several historical revolutionary figures--I wouldn't want it said I'd left you with only material sustenance and no spiritual nourishment. I'm sorry I couldn't arrange for more contemporary forms of diversion, but there really wasn't time to lay in connections for a holodisc player. As you once said to Arlen, this is the best I could manage in the circumstances." Avon stopped, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Blake breathed heavily, barely contained fury oozing out of him with each exhalation. "You did all this last night?"

"That's right."

"How did you avoid detection by our security cameras?"

Avon smiled. "Come now, Blake, I designed the system."

"With a _flaw_ in it apparently!"

"Not really."

"If you managed to elude detection, so could a genuine intruder."

"A genuine intruder wouldn't have been able to enlist Orac's cooperation," Avon pointed out. "Orac and I were in sensor link contact the whole time. He made sure the cameras only scanned where I'd _been_ , not where I _was_ at any given moment."

Blake sighed. "Why, Avon?"

"Why do you think?"

"You won't get away with this."

"On the contrary. I've already gotten away with it."

Blake sprung to his feet and lunged at the man. Avon sidestepped the attack deftly and primed his weapon for firing. "You asked what this was loaded with," he panted angrily. "All right, I'll tell you. It's loaded with the same 12-hour tranquilizing drug we used on Arlen's people. I would rather not have to use it on you, but I promise you I will if you make even the slightest further attempt at resistance. It's your choice whether you spend the next two days conscious and reasonably comfortable, or the first quarter of that time _un_ conscious and much of the rest of it _un_ comfortable. I would point out that this is a very small enclosure in which to be trapped in the company of your own vomit. Now, _sit down_!"

Blake continued to tremble with uncontrolled rage, but he made that one seemingly unavoidable concession to prudence. He stared at the ground in front of him, seething, for several long minutes, then his head shot up in sudden realization. "Forty-eight hours? In 48 hours I'll have missed my rendezvous with the _Aguilar_!" His face went ashen. "Oh, but that's the idea, isn't it?"

"Part of it, yes," Avon mumbled, looking down. He didn't want to--couldn't bear to--meet Blake's now beseeching eyes, matching Blake's whimpering, defeated voice...

"Please, Avon, if you care anything about me at all, don't do this."

"For pity's sake, don't beg, Blake."

The fire returned to Blake's voice. "What would you know about pity, you heartless bastard?"

Avon flinched inside, but never let it show. More than you, I think sometimes, he answered silently. Is there room for pity amidst all that passion for exceeding the limits of the possible? "I'm going now, Blake," he announced quietly. "You've no way out of this, so be sensible and try to make your peace with it." An anguished sob escaped from the rebel leader's lips. "And don't stand up again until I'm on the other side of that door."

Blake closed his eyes in one brief, broken attempt to deny the reality of what was happening to him, to deny that the human being he loved most in the universe was cold-bloodedly robbing him of his heart's dearest dream. He heard the door close behind the wretched traitor and blindly rushed at it, flinging himself against it. "Avon!  Avon, come back here!" he shouted. "Avon, when I get my hands on you, you'll wish you were still with Servalan on Gauda Prime!"

A short distance down the tunnel, Avon heard the threat and smiled in spite of himself at the unconquerable spirit behind it. "You'll have to figure out how to recognize me first," he called back.

And that, Blake realized with a sickening feeling as the sudden impact of Avon's words hurled him to the ground, was the rest of it.

*****

Docholli was making some last-minute adjustments to his surgical equipment when he heard the footsteps entering the Medical Unit behind him. "Ah, good," he greeted the new arrival. "I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so--" Then he turned around. "Avon, what are _you_ doing here?"

It _was_ Avon. In fact, it was Avon with Orac. Avon laid the computer down and began removing his shirt. "We'd best get started," he said. "We haven't much time."

"Wait a minute," the doctor protested. "What's going on? Where's Blake?"

"There's been a change of plans. Blake's been called away on an emergency."

"What?"

"I teleported him over myself a few hours ago. He's holed up at the spaceport in one of the safety nooks Tarrant staked out. He'll be going out tomorrow on the _Aguilar_."

"He'll be going _out_ on the _Aguilar_?" Docholli repeated in confusion.

"Yes, he has to meet with the Resistance leaders on Morphaniel."

"Then when--how is he getting back?"

"When--I can't tell you. How--we'll collect him with the _Zebulon_. That is to say, Tarrant will. I'll be--you know."

A sudden look of comprehension swept across Docholli's face. "You're here for the surgery! You mean to take Blake's place at the plant!"

"Yes--so may we get on with it?"

"I don't believe this. I wish Blake had said something to me before he left."

"We didn't want to wake you," Avon explained hurriedly. "We wanted you to have your full quota of sleep before this delicate undertaking." He smiled. " _I_ especially insisted upon it."

"This is awfully brave of you," Docholli marveled.

"Stupid's more like it," Avon muttered under his breath. "Can we get on with it, please?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. All the specifics of my surgical protocol have been premised on Blake's being the patient."

"Meaning your computer-generated image for my new face is patterned on Blake's bone structure, tissue type, skin tone and the like."

"Exactly."

"Yes--well, that's what Orac is here for. You're going to have to come up with a new set of projections, and then Orac is going to have to feed the new data on Ari Janssen's physical appearance into all the records he's so obligingly altered for us."

"Avon, that's going to take time."

"I realize that."

"More time than the plan calls for."

"I realize _that_." Impatience bristled in his voice. "Look, Blake was planning a leisurely 24-hour recovery period, but Blake's soft--"

" _Blake is soft_?" Docholli repeated with amusement.

Avon smiled. "Well, compared to me. The point is, if I stay here in the Medical Unit after the operation, you can give me drugs to speed up the recovery process."

"It's not advisable."

"This isn't a bloody elective procedure, Docholli! The _Aguilar_ 's schedule is fixed. The only variable under our control is the length of the recovery period, so that's where we have to cut corners. I'm prepared to lay in that bed over there and suffer you to inflict doctorly indignities upon my person for every minute between the conclusion of my surgery and my scheduled departure to rendezvous with the ship, but I am _not_ prepared to stand here and argue the matter with you for one minute longer."

Docholli nodded. "Go sit down," he instructed, reaching out to key Orac. "And put your shirt back on before you catch an old-fashioned, Old Calendar rhinovirus. I'll let you know when I've come up with the specifications for your new face."

 

II

 

The newly created "Dr. Ari Janssen" materialized within the close confining space of a shower stall in the men's washroom aboard the spaceship _Aguilar_. "By luck or by judgment," he mumbled, echoing words which Jenna Stannis had once quoted Blake as uttering after Avon had teleported them safely into an equally claustrophobic corner. He peered out cautiously, pleased to see that no one else was presently using the facilities. Darting back inside, he lifted his teleport bracelet to his lips and called the base. "Up and safe. Good to know the construction plans for this model of cruiser are so reliable. Thank Orac for coming up with the correct coordinates. I'll be in touch again when, and as, agreed upon. Out."

The sound of his new voice was still unsettling to Avon's ears, and his fingertips were still tender from Docholli's reconfiguration of his prints. It made his next delicate task a trifle clumsy to carry out, but after a few false starts and the clanging sound of a metallic instrument slipping through his fingers and falling to the floor, he'd pried loose the tiny communicator chip inside the teleport bracelet. He removed the pair of spectacles from his face, unscrewed the hinge holding the sidepiece to the rest of the frame and slipped the communicator chip into the hollowed out space conveniently provided, then replaced and tightened the screw and replaced the spectacles.  And then, with a sharp pang of trepidation and a vague memory of an ancient historical reference to "crossing the Rubicon", he crushed the bracelet in his fist.

A voice came over the ship's public address system. "Attention, all passengers. We are approaching Spaceport Ryanec. We shall be landing in five minutes. Kindly have your identity papers and boarding passes available for inspection as you exit the ship. Those passengers holding transfer cards for the air car shuttle to Pacifica Laboratories will need to have these stamped as well. Thank you for travelling with the _Aguilar_. We hope you've had a pleasant journey."

"Short, but sweet," Avon murmured, checking his array of forged credentials. As he stepped out into the washroom, two fellow passengers were just entering. They stared at him in amazement, then exchanged bewildered looks. Avon looked down at himself and smiled as he realized the odd sight he presented emerging from a shower stall fully clothed. He caught a glimpse of one of his observers shrugging and the other making a universally understood gesture by pointing a rapidly spinning finger at the side of his own head. Unable to resist temptation, Avon sidled close to the man and whispered conspiratorially, "You don't know how right you are." Then he tossed the squashed remains of his teleport bracelet into the nearest matter recycling chute and proceeded on his way to the disembarkation ramp.

He was passed through the exit line without the slightest hesitation and soon found himself in the main lounge of the busy spaceport. The air car shuttle to the plant, with its ironically appropriate title, was not scheduled to depart for another thirty minutes, so he looked around for something to occupy his time.

There was a mirror lining one wall of the lounge, and as he passed by it, two images captured his attention simultaneously: One was the image of himself in the person of Ari Janssen; the other was the reflection of a ticket counter far across the lounge. And all at once it hit him:

To the universe at large, he was Kerr Avon no longer. He was on a maximum security planet, and he had just walked through a gauntlet of security-conscious Federation guards, and no one had given him so much as a second look. If Servalan herself had appeared in front of him at that very instant, he could have engaged her in ritual pleasantries without the slightest fear of detection. He had a new face, he had a new voice, he had a new set of fingerprints--and he had a pocket full of high denomination credits.

Suddenly the word "Tickets" beckoned with an irresistible sweetness--as a glass of bubbling adrenalin and soma might have beckoned to Vila Restal or a fancy new gun to Dayna Mellanby...

According to the schedule of departing flights listed on the sign above the ticket seller's head, there was a space cruiser in port presently, scheduled to lift off in less than an hour for the planet Obligidor. That, to his recollection, was a place with an Earth-level gravitational field, a temperate climate, a high standard of technology and a relatively scant Federation presence. A man without a past might easily find a future there.

 _Well, why not_? hissed a voice of resentment deep inside him. _Why the bloody hell not_?

"Excuse me," he said to the clerk, a nondescript Beta grade who looked up and flashed him an automatic, plastic smile. Probably Pylene-50 induced. "Excuse me. I was wondering if I might purchase a ticket on the ship to Obligidor."

"Certainly, Sir. Alpha, Beta, Gamma or Delta?"

Can't you tell, you idiot? Avon grumbled silently. "Alpha," he answered.

"Round-trip or one-way?"

"Definitely one-way."

"Very good, Sir. If you'll just wait while I check availability..." The clerk floated off somewhere, leaving Avon alone with his thoughts.

He sat down in a comfortable lounge chair and closed his eyes.  Oh, the sheer blessing of feeling _free_ to close his eyes in a public place, to not be every instant looking over his shoulder for a trap. And it could be that way-- _would_ be that way--from now on. For the rest of his peaceful, safe, comfortable, _long_ life.

He must have drifted off for a moment, his tired body still feeling the effects of Docholli's surgery, for he jerked awake unpleasantly to the sound of a plaintive voice inside his head:

"Please, Avon, if you care anything about me at all, don't do this."

Blake, who never begged for anything, who repeatedly spit in the faces of men with the power to maim and murder him--Blake had begged Avon not to shatter his dream: his wild, impossible, mad, utterly selfless dream. For _that_ , Blake had begged without shame or hesitation.

The thing of it was, Avon _hadn't_ shattered Blake's dream--he'd assumed the burden of it. And he'd even let Blake know that at the last... But if he ran now, he _would_ be shattering that dream...

 _If he ran_. "Avon might run," Blake had said to Jenna in orbit around Horizon, not knowing Avon had overheard. And it had hurt to overhear. _Why_ had it hurt?

On Exbar Blake had refused to leave his side when he was wounded...

On Albion Blake had waited out the final seconds of a ticking solium radiation bomb, determined to give _him_ every possible chance at survival (nearly giving Vila cardiac arrest in the process)...

And then, most recently, on Gauda Prime, Blake had tried to take his place as the protagonist in Servalan's sadistic deathdrama...

A feminine voice came over the public address system, interrupting his thoughts.  "The air car shuttle to Pacifica Laboratories is now loading at Berth Six. Repeat: the air car shuttle to Pacifica Laboratories is now loading at Berth Six."

"Sir?" interposed the much closer voice of the ticket clerk. "Sir, I'm sorry to have to inform you that there are no Alpha accommodations available on today's flight to Obligidor. If you'd like to make a reservation for the next flight seven time units from now--"

Avon looked at the man for a moment, then burst out laughing, the sound of his laughter gradually rising in pitch and intensity.

"Sir?" the clerk repeated, totally perplexed.

Avon rose from the comfort of his lounge chair with an expansive sigh. "That's all right," he said softly. "I've changed my mind anyway."

*****

Base Commander Arlen, head of Federation security forces on Gauda Prime, had a conflict of interest--and that was putting it mildly. Commissioner Sleer had given her the assignment of finding out how and when Blake and his associates had escaped from the planet and where they were now. Arlen didn't know how or when they had escaped, but she had an idea as to where they might be--a very good idea. That was why she had reacted so strongly to Sleer's mention of "the Fourth Sector" and relaxed again when the Commissioner specified "Helotrix." Helotrix. Not...

Arlen couldn't bring herself to say the name, could hardly even bring herself to _think_ the name. She had daily waking nightmares of that moment when she'd screamed it out in desperate terror, cringing before a laser probe-wielding Kerr Avon. If he had actually used the damnable instrument on her, she might have come by now to understand her treacherous behavior. Not forgiven it, but at least understood it... As it was, his heartless cunning had denied her even that shred of solace, left her forever drowning in an ocean of humiliation and self-loathing, cut off irrevocably by her shameful secret from her Federation comrades, unable to share the torment of that memory with another living human being...

But Avon knew. Avon and the ones called Vila, Tarrant and Dayna had witnessed her shame. And Blake and Soolin knew. They'd come in--well, afterward--but they knew. Blake especially, who had undressed her soul with his eyes the way a cruder man might have undressed her body. Blake had looked at her and known--absolutely _known_ \--that her one moment of weakness had won him her eternal complicity.

In the next room the Commissioner was planning to contact Director Hagrim at the Federation's Pylene-50 processing plant, to ask for an update on his efforts to solve the mystery of that last batch of the drug which had arrived on GP contaminated and useless. She herself had had a run-in with the man when the contamination was first discovered. She'd wanted him to order a no-holds-barred interrogation of every employee at his facility--and he had rightly refused. She realized now--hell, she'd realized even then--that she'd merely been taking out her impotent frustration on a convenient target. And then, of course, the ship that had delivered the damaged cargo had been destroyed in a space accident on its way back home, making it impossible to question the crew as to any possibility that the contamination had occurred in transit. But _had_ it been a space accident? Or had it been deliberate sabotage--an attempt to cover up the truth about that shipment?

It was a different sort of cover-up that preoccupied her now, however--her own--and what would become of it (and her) if Blake or Avon were ever captured... Sleer had promised her promotion if she tracked them down, and both because she wanted that promotion (funny how little not deserving it did to quench the craving for it) and because it was impossible _not_ to pursue the required investigation with the Commissioner virtually camped on her doorstep, she was making progress in her search for Blake's GP rebel network.

Even the brief fraction of a day she'd masqueraded as a captured outlaw-turned-rebel at his base had provided a few leads. Blake hadn't ever trusted her, as it turned out, and he'd taken pains to conceal most of his goings-on from her, but she'd rubbed shoulders with a recruit or two and could remember what they looked like and at least what they'd _called_ themselves. Yes, she was close now, uncomfortably close, to the dubious success of hauling in some _bona fide_ native rebels for interrogation. Once she did, once they talked (and they _would_ talk), she might know for sure if what she suspected was true: that Blake had gone to ground on Ryanec 5, had somehow found a way to hide his people there while he plotted to use the top secret information _she_ had disclosed to deal a major blow to the Federation.

But if she got to him in time to stop him, to save the Pacification and Control Program, then nothing--absolutely nothing in the known universe--could save _her_. Blake and Avon would tell--they might go to their deaths under torture with the secrets of _their_ side intact--but _that_ they would tell, shout it gleefully and gloatingly to whoever would listen. And Sleer would listen, Sleer would drink it in eagerly. And Sleer would crush her with it, broadcast her disgrace to all the Federation, and then end her life in some suitably imaginative way--perhaps use her as the first test case in her proposed "public execution by carimbula venom" scheme...

Arlen shuddered, cursing herself again for her gutless cowardice in the hands of Kerr Avon. She could have died--should have died--bravely at those hands with her honor intact. Not this other, unspeakable way, universally reviled for her treason. No, she couldn't allow it to come to that...

But she couldn't for much longer stall the investigation either. If only Blake and Avon had been overpowered on Helotrix, slaughtered in that shoot-out at the Magnetrix Terminal. Slaughtered...

A glimmer of hope flickered in her troubled mind. They had to be stopped, these rebels--even she wanted them stopped--perhaps especially she, as to stop them would be to limit the damage _she_ had made it possible for them to do. But "stopped" needn't be the same thing as "captured and questioned", need it? There _was_ an alternative.

Arlen leaned back in her chair, smiling. Yes, capturing them could prove sticky. But killing them--killing them could solve _all_ her problems for good. On second thought, maybe she didn't have a conflict of interest, after all.

*****

The Federation laboratory on Ryanec 5--Pacifica Laboratories, it was called--was the single most heavily secured facility on the entire maximum security planet. All employees who worked there--from Director Lev Hagrim down to the lowliest service robot overseer--had to pass rigorous loyalty checks and were sworn to secrecy, under penalty of high treason, concerning what it was the plant manufactured. Loyalty being, in the Federation's long experience, a changeable commodity, however, this character safeguard was parallelled by more objective ones: the most up-to-date, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

The technical competence of those who actually bore responsibility for the production and refining of Pacifica's major export was likewise held to the highest standard and periodically re-assessed. And yet a couple of months ago, the unthinkable had somehow happened: a defective batch of Pylene-50 had been certified as fit for transport and actually shipped all the way to Gauda Prime...

Lev Hagrim looked up from his desk as his executive assistant walked through the door. "The new quality control expert from Morphaniel has arrived," she announced. "And Commissioner Sleer is on the interstellar communications relay, requesting a word with you."

"Tell Dr. Janssen I'll be with him shortly," Hagrim instructed. "Put the Commissioner through to my display console now."

"Very good, Sir."

A moment later Sleer's face appeared before him. "Director Hagrim," she greeted him lavishly.

"Commissioner Sleer," he responded in kind. "How good to see you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"To my _dis_ pleasure at the length of time it's taking you to solve our little mystery," was the deflating reply.

He recovered himself quickly. "Ah, in that case, I have good news for you."

"I hope so."

"I've brought in a quality control expert, a highly trained scientist with a joint background in chemistry and engineering, to go over the plant with a fine tooth comb, as they used to say, and with the unprejudiced eye of an outside observer. If there's something that's escaped our notice from sheer familiarity--and there must be--he should be able to see it."

"Perhaps."

"Look, I realize you're impatient to get to the bottom of this so that we can ship a fresh supply of Pylene-50 to Gauda Prime, but it shouldn't be much longer. The man arrived on the _Aguilar_ this very morning. He's waiting to meet with me now."

"Then I shan't keep you," Sleer declared graciously. "Oh, one more thing. You _are_ saving all the mythracite crystals from the manufacturing process for me, are you not?"

"Just as you instructed me to do, Commissioner."

His less than fully ingratiating tone irritated her. "You realize, I hope, what a privilege it is that you've been included in this project, what a token of my trust in you--"

"I do, indeed, Commissioner Sleer. I'm very honored."

"So you should be, Hagrim. So you should be."

"One question though, if I might. What if this expert I've hired notices and asks why we're stockpiling a useless byproduct?"

"You'll just have to find some way to put him off the scent, won't you?"

"He does carry a double-A security clearance, you know. His credentials are impeccable."

The Commissioner sighed. "Hagrim, when it comes to the welfare of the Federation, no one's credentials are _that_ impeccable--not even yours." With a long, sharp manicured fingernail, she pushed a button to end the transmission.

As her face vanished from the screen, Hagrim pushed the intercom button on his desk. "I'll see Dr. Janssen now, Rella."

A moment later the plant's newly hired consultant was ushered through the door. "Dr. Janssen, welcome. I'm Director Hagrim." He barely rose from his chair for their ritual handshake. "Please sit down. I trust you found the shuttle flight comfortable?"

"Thank you, yes."

"And the journey before that?"

"It was everything I could have hoped for."

Hagrim glanced up at the note of difficult-to-define irony in the other's voice and caught the last fraction of an equally ironic smile. "Good," he said. "The _Aguilar_ 's not the most luxurious of ships--some say more like an oversized planet hopper than a deep space cruiser."

"But it gets one where one needs to go," Avon put in, taking his own preliminary measure of the man. Efficient, courteous, almost certainly _not_ "adapted", and, beyond that, an inscrutable cipher.

"What a practical attitude," Hagrim said pleasantly. "I think you and I shall get on rather well."

"So when do I start?"

"My dear man, you've already started. You're on salary as of today, and I expect you to be alert and observant of everything around you. If the unfortunate incident of several weeks ago was deliberately engineered, that means we have a traitor in our ranks."

"How likely is that?"

"Frankly, not very. All the lower echelon workers have themselves been adapted, and all the higher echelon personnel have passed rigorous psycho-evaluations of their loyalty."

How easily it rolls off his tongue, Avon thought, that word 'adapted.' "And if that were your chief line of investigation, you'd scarcely have sent for me."

"Indeed not," Hagrim agreed. "Your credentials are highly impressive, but hardly in that area. No, I suspect we've either a spot of undetected incompetence on our staff or an undetected equipment malfunction. You'll have ample scope to search for both. Tomorrow first thing I'll take you on a tour of the facilities. By the way, all our staff reside in a complex adjacent to the laboratory. I've reserved a unit for you there. Rella will escort you momentarily." He handed Avon a red badge emblazoned with the Federation logo. "Put this on, please."

Avon complied. "I noticed the people I passed on my way in wearing these," he commented. "But most of theirs were yellow or green."

Hagrim smiled. "The colors are access codes. Red is the highest. I've given you authorization for admission to any area of Pacifica."

"Thank you. I'll make good use of it."

"I'm sure you will. We'll also register your palm print with the master computer so you can move around the lower security areas with maximum convenience. Badges aren't required outside the plant proper, but doors open only for authorized personnel." He pressed the intercom. "Rella, would you step in here, please?" She appeared almost instantly. "I'd like you to escort Dr. Janssen to his quarters." He handed her a set of keys, stamped with the unit number. While they were conferring, Avon stole a glance at his chrono.

"Welcome again to Pacifica," Hagrim said, reprising their earlier handshake. "I look forward to the benefit of your expertise. If you can't find out for certain how the mishap occurred, then hopefully you will at least be able to streamline our procedures so as to guard against other mishaps in the future. And please don't hesitate to recommend changes out of any fear of offending."

Avon looked into the other man's eyes. "Director Hagrim," he said, "rest assured that I am prepared to make changes more radical than you can imagine."

*****

He'd been back with them for nearly an hour now, and they still couldn't believe what he was telling them. Six pairs of astonished eyes cringed before his seething ones.

Deva looked positively ill. "You've been trapped in a hole in the ground for two days?"

"Deva, that's not what's important!" Blake bellowed. "It's not where I _was_ that matters--it's where I _wasn't_ \--where I'm _not_..."

"Where he _is_ ," Vila piped up.

"Don't remind me," Blake groaned.

An angry female voice cut in over the base intercom system. "Blake, why are we locked in our quarters?"

The rebel leader hit the transmission switch. "Because I ordered it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you out here."

"Why?"

"Because we're holding a strategy meeting, Mirabel. Any more inane questions?"

"How long?"

"I don't know. Till we're finished. A couple of hours maybe. Look, if you have an emergency, sound the alarm. If you don't have an emergency, kindly stay out of the way of those of us who do." He stabbed at the switch again as if he intended to destroy it.

"A little hard on her, weren't you?" Dayna remarked.

"Yes, it's even less her fault than it is ours that Avon hoodwinked _you_ ," Tarrant added. Blake glared at him.

"Come sit down, Blake," Soolin urged.

He shook her off. "I don't want to sit down!"

"Perhaps I should check you out," Docholli proposed.

"I don't want to be checked out!"

"Well, what _do_ you want, Blake?" Tarrant demanded.

The rebel leader panned over the group one by one with menacing eyes. "I want to know how in the bloody galaxy all of you could have been fooled by him! How could you not have suspected?"

"Why should we have?" Vila asked.

"Why shouldn't you have?" Blake retorted. "You especially. You've known him longest, best..." He turned slowly from the thief to the cybersurgeon. "And you, Docholli, you who were the architect of the plans to give me a new face-- _me_ , not Avon. How could you imagine I'd change those plans and not speak to you about it?"

The doctor swallowed hard. "He explained that to me, Blake."

"Yes, yes, I know. I was called away suddenly. There wasn't time to tell you without waking you, and you needed your sleep so you'd be fit to operate." Blake's tone was mocking, deprecating. "And it never even occurred to you that you were being had?"

"So why didn't it occur to _you_ , Blake," Tarrant interrupted, "when he asked for that detailed briefing?"

"Yes, especially when he'd suggested taking your place," Dayna chimed in. "Don't blame us when _you_ fell for it hook, line and sinker."

Blake heaved a sigh. "I never thought--"

"He meant it?" Soolin finished.

"No, I believed he meant it. But when I turned him down, I thought that was the end of it."

Dayna snorted. "Well, don't take it out on us because you're angry at Avon."

"Angry at Avon?" Blake repeated. "I'll say I'm angry at Avon. I could kill him with my bare hands."

"Blake!" Deva exclaimed.

"I could wring his bloody neck till his bloody head comes off his bloody shoulders!"

"Blake!" Soolin exclaimed.

"I could--"

"Sh, quiet," Tarrant commanded suddenly, as Orac transmitted a series of alternating long and short beeps.

"That's it--that's the signal," Vila cried joyfully.

"He's made it," said Docholli.

"He's in," said Deva.

"He's safe," said Soolin.

"Thank God," whispered Blake, and collapsed into the nearest chair with a sob of relief.

*****

Avon moved through the hybrid tangle of service robots and human workers at Hagrim's elbow, tuning out the background hum of busy machinery as he mentally catalogued every detail of this first, comprehensive exposure to the production process. "This is Dr. Janssen," the Director had announced upon their arrival. "He's here to evaluate and improve our procedures. He will be circulating amongst you as need dictates for the next week or two, and I expect you all to give him your fullest cooperation." The red access badge prominently clipped to his shirt reinforced Hagrim's words; "Dr. Janssen" could not have asked for a more auspicious beginning...

From what he could observe, the actual process whereby Pylene-50 was transformed from its raw to its refined state (including the vital step of adding stabilizers to prevent the compound's innate tendency to break down in a matter of days) involved both human and computer supervision of the drug's movement through a series of vats. Each vat represented a sequential stage in the process and was connected by a pair of pipes to the vats before and after it. The pipes were designated "inflow" and "outflow"; transportation of the substance being synthesized, and of its ancillary waste products, was governed by valves opening and closing the pipes. Computers controlled the operation of the valves, and people kept a watchful eye on the computers. Finally, service robots sealed and carried away heavy crates containing the finished product.

At the terminal end of the whole operation, a huge quantity of pale yellow crystals would tumble out an open chute and pile up on the floor. Again, service robots would gather them up and crate them. The crystals looked nothing like the Pylene-50 itself, and the crates they were being stored in were of an entirely different shape and color.

Avon pointed to the accumulating pile. "That was your culprit, yes?"

"Mythracite--yes," Hagrim confirmed.

"Forgive me for saying so, but keeping it lying around like this would seem to be asking for trouble."

"Except that we _weren't_ keeping it at the time of the--accident. That last pipe _used_ to feed directly into a waste disposal unit."

"I see." _No, I don't. Mythracite is worthless. Why are they keeping it at all_?

His face must have given him away. "You're wondering why we've started stockpiling it." _No one looks so innocent as the man who calls attention to his guilt with equanimity before he's asked_.

"Yes, it does seem a rather pointless exercise on the face of it."

"I agree with you, Janssen. But some joker in Budget Control thinks otherwise. He's conducting a statistical inventory of Pacifica's waste products. He thinks he'll score points with his superiors if he can find a way to utilize every last gram of garbage."

"But everyone knows mythracite crystals _have_ no utility." _And for a mere statistical inventory, they're receiving awfully careful handling. Those crates are equipped with temperature control panels_!

"Yes, quite," Hagrim agreed, with a smile of conspiratorial superiority. "It's an Old Calendar attitude known as ecological vigilance."

Avon returned the smile, but a pained expression replaced it the instant his companion looked the other way. He never had liked mysteries--mysteries originating with one's enemies least of all...

And the word "enemy" took on starkly fresh significance as they left the central processing laboratory, entered a lift, travelled to the ground floor and re-emerged in the antechamber to a veritable dungeon. Avon faked--or didn't fake--a look of utter astonishment.

"Yes, we do have a small detention wing," Hagrim said, escorting him through the presently empty cellblock. "I don't imagine you'll have any reason to come down here, but as I'd given you _carte blanche_ to roam the premises, I thought it only fair to forestall the shock of your stumbling onto this by chance." He scrutinized Avon's face. "But I see I haven't entirely succeeded."

"Why--?"

"Why do we need such facilities here? Well, we don't ordinarily. The civil administration has its own police station and jails, of course. But we're in many respects a community unto ourselves--the nearest city is an air car shuttle's journey away."

"Even so, this seems a bit drastic." He caught his breath. "And _that_ seems more than a bit." They had crossed the cellblock and now stood at the doorway to a state-of-the-art interrogation chamber. Small it might have been, but from what Avon's all-too-experienced eye could see, not lacking in the least.

"You do understand what we _do_ here?" Hagrim said.

"You make a pacification drug to insure peace and order to Federation citizens," Avon answered carefully.

Is that naivete, or is that tact? the Director wondered. "Several, actually. You can see the other laboratories at your leisure. They're housed in the adjacent buildings. But this is the heart of our operation. So, just whom do you imagine _I_ work for?"

"The Federation."

"The Federation Security Commission."

"You don't say!"

"I'm not a scientist, Dr. Janssen. If I were, I wouldn't need _you_ to solve my problems. I'm a security officer. In another setting I might be--"

You might be Shrinker, Avon finished silently, ignoring the actual end of Hagrim's sentence. Well, it figured, didn't it? The Pacification and Control Program was a political police operation. Who else would Servalan pick to oversee such a vital component of it, but a political police agent? At least he didn't have Shrinker's temperament. According to the communication Orac had intercepted between the Director and the Federation Base on Gauda Prime following Avalon's rescue mission, Hagrim had resisted Arlen's call for a witchhunt at the lab...

Avon's eyes scanned the array of conventional torture devices locked in a glass cabinet on the wall, then came to rest on a most _un_ conventional device at the far end of the room. He'd never seen one before, but he'd seen pictures, heard stories... His arm stretched out in front of him, almost involuntarily, pointing. "Is that--?"

"A mind scanner," Hagrim confirmed. "Only one of its kind in the Sector. They've fallen into disfavor, you know."

"How would I know?"

"Sorry," with a little chuckle. "Of course you wouldn't. Well, it's something we use only as a last resort. It can cause permanent damage to the mind, even burn out memory circuits before we've accessed them at times--an obvious drawback. But it is, believe me, apart from that, quite impossible to resist."

Avon thought of the one man he knew personally who had been subjected to a mind scanner. If _that_ man hadn't resisted, no one could. "Oh, yes, I believe you," he breathed.

Hagrim laid an almost kindly hand on his shoulder. "Come away from here, shall we? I haven't meant to upset you. I'm a civilized man, Dr. Janssen. I don't enjoy inflicting pain, and I don't inflict it superfluously."

They retraced their steps through the cellblock into the corridor. "Isn't it superfluous, though?" Avon ventured.

"Why?'

"Well--"

"Ah!" exclaimed Hagrim. "You're wondering why we need the cruder methods at all when we have Pylene-50."

"Exactly."

"The Exclusionary Act--the legislation passed by the High Council, exempting all Federation personnel above a certain rank and their families from adaptation."

"But why would you _need_ to question Federation personnel? In that manner, I mean."

Hagrim smiled. "Your presumption that all Federation personnel are loyal reflects well on your character, Doctor, but--if you'll forgive my saying so--it doesn't say much for your political acumen."

Avon offered an apologetic little shrug. "I try to leave politics to those better suited for it." And more grimly to himself: _The operative word here being "try"_...

They were on the lift again and then back on the main floor. "There couldn't be 'exclusions' from the Exclusionary Act?" Avon inquired, as they strolled down the corridor together.

"Oh, of course there could be," Hagrim replied. "We'd have no trouble at all obtaining authorization to administer Pylene-50 to, say, a Federation officer under suspicion of disloyalty. The problem is, most of them have already had the antidote."

Avon froze in his tracks. "Antidote?"

"You don't know about that?"

"I've--heard rumors," he answered slowly.

"Oh, it's quite true," the Director assured him. "It was a stroke of phenomenal luck how we came by the formula."

"I'll bet."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. You were saying?"

"I was about to tell you how the Federation came into possession of the formula for the antidote to Pylene-50. There was this rebel leader Kerr Avon--perhaps you've heard of him--"

"No, I can't say that I have."

"Well, anyway, he had the formula, but he didn't have the necessary raw materials to manufacture the antidote in quantity. But one of the outer planets--Betafarl--did. So Avon tried to put together an alliance of outer planets, including Betafarl."

"What happened?"

"The ruler of Betafarl, a man named Zukan, turned out to be an ally of Commissioner Sleer. Commissioner Sleer--that's who I work for--she heads up the Pacification and Control Program--"

"Yes, I do believe I've heard _that_ name a time or two."

"So Avon gave the formula to Zukan--"

"And Zukan gave it to Sleer. How marvelous." He caught Hagrim staring at him, puzzled by his glum tone. "I mean, how marvelous!" he amended quickly. "So, where do you get the antidote from now?"

"Oh, we make it here."

"You mean _here_?" Avon indicated their immediate surroundings.

"Yes. Here at Pacifica. Would you like to see?"

"Please."

As they moved on in the direction Hagrim indicated, the Director continued explaining. "The antidote is an isomer of the original drug. In their final state, they look virtually identical."

"Yes, that can happen with isomers."

"So I understand. You'd know more about it than I, of course. So, to guard against an even worse mishap than the one you're here to investigate, we keep the two processes entirely separate. The antidote is manufactured on the other side of the plant with totally different equipment, different set of service robots, even different workers. That's what the green and yellow badges are all about. A member of the staff wearing the wrong color can't even enter the other section of the plant without tripping an alarm."

"Then there's no interface at all?"

"Only the main computer which oversees Pacifica as a whole--unless you count the plumbing in the basement."

As they crossed over into the passageway leading to the lab where the antidote was manufactured, a synthesized voice informed them that they were "leaving Sector Yellow and entering Sector Green", and the color of the paint on the walls in the corridor _changed_ from yellow to green.

Avon registered it all peripherally, filed it all at the fringes of his consciousness. For the center of his consciousness was still mulling over Hagrim's earlier revelation: _Unless you count the plumbing in the basement_...

*****

"Are you making any progress analyzing the Magnetrix data, Orac?" Blake asked.

*I would make a good deal more if you didn't constantly interrupt me to inquire,* the computer replied testily. *It would also be of assistance if you told me precisely what you are looking for.*

"If I knew precisely what I was looking for, I wouldn't need you to look for it, would I?"

*'Anything of sufficiently unusual nature to merit its own, built-in security system' covers a great deal of territory, as well as requiring a measure of mind-reading. I would remind you that I do not possess telepathic capabilities where humans are concerned and can therefore only extrapolate from past experience with human behavior as to what _they_ might consider 'of sufficiently unusual nature.' The likelihood of my extrapolating correctly--*

"Yes, yes, Orac, carry on. I don't need a probability projection of your capacity to make guesses."

*Very well. I will let you know when I have something to report.* Blake rose from the worktable and was about to leave the room when Orac's voice summoned him back. *I now have something to report.* He whirled around. *It is not in relation to the Magnetrix matter.*

"Well, what is it then?"

*An inferior computer is attempting to communicate with me.*

Blake smiled. "Could you be a little more specific?"

*The Purple Sphere computer on the planet Iridian informs me  that it has a message for the human known as Mirabel Malkar from her pair-bond partner.*

"Thank you, Orac. Stand by, please." The rebel leader pressed the switch on the intercom. "Mirabel, this is Blake. Are you in your quarters?"

"Roj, this is Ved," answered the voice of the woman's son. "My mother's changing the baby. Can I take a message for her?"

"Yes. You can tell her a message has come in for her from your father."

In the background, a chorus of excited young voices erupted in cheers. "She'll be right with you, Roj," Ved said.

Moments later, the woman appeared. "Have you played it?" she asked.

"No, of course not," Blake answered. "Orac, the human known as Mirabel Malkar is now present. Kindly give her voice and visplay on that message, but eliminate all reference to source. I'll be right outside," he added, scrambling to reach the door before the tape commenced. "Call me when you're finished."

In the corridor he met Tarrant. "No, don't go in there," he said. "Malkar's sent a reply to his wife's tape. She's viewing it now."

"Any progress sorting out the Magnetrix data?" the pilot inquired.

"Not yet. I think Orac takes umbrage at being assigned such a menial task."

"Any word from Avon?"

"Yes, Deva took a message from him this morning, requesting one of us teleport to his residence quarters at Pacifica tonight to collect the antidote."

"And you're only just telling me now?"

Blake laughed. "I'm only just _seeing_ you now."

"True," conceded Tarrant. "So, who are you sending?"

"No one."

"No one?"

"I'm going over myself."

"Isn't that a little risky, Blake?"

The rebel leader shrugged. "I don't see why it should be. The one form of unauthorized intrusion Pacifica's elaborate security system _isn't_ equipped to detect is a teleport beam." The pilot frowned, pondering it. "I _have_ been over before, Tarrant," Blake added soothingly. "And this will be my last 'unprotected' trip." He chuckled. "In fact, if I know Avon, he'll probably be waiting to greet me with a loaded medical laser in his hand."

Tarrant responded with laughter of his own. "You've forgiven him, then?"

Blake's facial expression was ambiguous. "What's done is done," he said. "How I feel about it is of secondary importance."

"But that _is_ why you're going there yourself, isn't it?" the pilot probed. "To find out how you'll feel when you face him again for the first time?"

Blake never had the chance to answer for, at that moment, the door they were standing beside slid open. They took their leave of one another, the rebel leader returning to Orac's worktable.

Mirabel was sitting there silently with tears on her cheeks. "You all right?" he asked softly.

She nodded, dabbing at her eyes.

"Want to talk about it?"

She shrugged indifferently. "What's to talk about? I'm here. He's there--wherever 'there' is. Evidently your friends are as security-conscious as you are and imposed the same conditions on him that you imposed on me."

"Is he any closer to--?" Blake let the sentence hang, unfinished.

"Deserting the Federation?"

"Coming to terms with the realities of his present predicament."

Mirabel smiled at Blake's talent for making words do his bidding. "Well, I'll tell you this: He was impressed by the fact that you rebels kept your promise to let me know he was alive. He hadn't believed it when he was told that was your intention."

"So I understand."

"He appreciated it, Blake, very deeply. And he assures me he's been well-treated. Of course he might not have been free to say otherwise." She caught the rebel leader's reproving glance. "I'm sorry. He _looks_ like he's been receiving proper treatment--well-rested, well-nourished. He says the other men captured with him--his crewmates--have gone over to the rebels and that they're on other planets now. He's lonely..."

"We can remedy that."

"He also expressed--confusion--about the doubts _I_ expressed regarding the Federation."

Blake looked hopeful. "Does that mean he's not dismissing them out of hand?"

Mirabel shrugged again and pushed back her chair. "Well, I think I'll go give the children the messages their father had for each of them." The rebel leader nodded. "Blake, why are you still here?" she burst out in a sudden fit of courage.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You told me you were going away, and then the day you were scheduled to leave, you suddenly locked the children and me in our room for several hours without explanation."

"I'm sorry about that," Blake said sincerely.

"Sorry you locked us in?"

"Sorry it was necessary to lock you in," he replied with scrupulous honesty. "As to why I'm still here--well, circumstances beyond my control intervened to alter my plans."

"But _Avon_ isn't here," she ventured. "Hasn't been for a week."

"You've noticed."

Mirabel laughed. "How could one _not_ notice? The peace and quiet, the absence of sarcasm and gratuitous insults--" Blake's laughter combined with, and soon exceeded, her own. "I know better than to ask where he's gone," she said, as their mutual mirth subsided, "but can I assume it's wherever _you_ would have gone, had circumstances _not_ intervened?"

A shadow crossed the rebel leader's face. "Yes," he replied gravely.

"And you're not pleased about it, are you? About his taking your place."

"No, I'm not."

"Because you'd rather be facing the danger yourself than sitting here safely while he faces it."

"For a number of reasons--"

"But that's what it boils down to in the end."

The question mark had dropped out of her voice several statements ago. "Perhaps," Blake conceded.

The woman reached over and covered his hand with her own. "You remind me of my Eban sometimes. He was always protective of the men who served under him that way. He would put himself at risk sooner than endanger those he considered himself responsible for."

"But that's what responsibility _means_ , Mirabel," Blake said simply.

"It's what it should mean, yes," she agreed. "It would appear there are some values which cut across political lines."

He looked into her eyes, then down at her hand still clutching his, and she withdrew it self-consciously.

*Blake, I have information for you,* Orac announced, barging into the moment.

"I'd better go," Mirabel whispered. "Thank you for the tape from Eban and for--thank you," she concluded awkwardly.

Blake watched her leave, then shook himself as if to dispel the sudden poignant ache visiting his heart. "Yes, Orac, what is it?"

*A possible candidate for your Magnetrix Terminal alarm trigger.*

"Yes?"

*There is a data file codenamed Project Myth. It bears the seal of the Federation Security Commission, and according to the information available, it was downgraded to Top Secret only within the past few weeks.*

" _Down_ graded to Top Secret? From what?"

*From Double X.*

"Double X!" Blake exclaimed. "That's the same classification given to the location of the Pylene-50 plant. That would do it all right, Orac."

*If by 'do it', you mean trip the alarm at Magnetrix, I calculate there's a 91.4% probability that you are correct.*

Blake smiled. "That's better odds than I usually get. So what can you tell me about this Project Myth? What else is in the data file?"

*A cross-reference to another data file codenamed CV Research, and a list of planets.*

"Access CV Research for me."

*CV Research is not part of the Magnetrix Terminal database.*

"What _is_ it part of then?"

*That information is not presently available.*

"Wonderful," Blake sighed. "All right, how many planets are on that list?"

*Ten.*

"Let me have a readout." Blake watched as the information appeared on his display console and made a permanent record of it. Some of the names he recognized, some he didn't. The only information accompanying the names were the planets' precise locations in space. Offhand, he could discern no obvious pattern to it. "Orac, I want you to run a thorough analysis for me of what these ten planets have in common and then give me your best guess as to the purpose for which this list was compiled."

*The analysis will take some time,* the computer advised.

"Then you'd better get started on it," Blake said. He left Orac to its labors and sat back, pondering the filename. "Myth--Project Myth. Myth as in mythology? Some grandiose propaganda undertaking, perhaps, to perpetuate the legend of the Federation's invincibility? But why these particular planets? And what does CV stand for? Communications? Control? Control what? Control vectors?" As his eyes wandered lazily across the list Orac had provided, one name on that list suddenly leaped out at him: Wanta--the planet where the _Zebulon_ had taken Hunda's fighters on its way back from Helotrix to Ryanec.

*****

The teleport deposited Blake in the middle of the Pacifica Residential Compound living unit assigned to Dr. Ari Janssen. He rematerialized to find himself face to face with the unit's occupant. "Oh, my God!" he breathed, staring.

"Come now," Avon chided. "I can't be _that_ ugly."

Of course Docholli had shown Blake the computer projection for this _revised_ "Dr. Janssen", but still... He came closer, examined the face in detail and exclaimed, "Fantastic!"

"My compliments to your cybersurgeon," Avon said with a smile. "Welcome to what passes for my living quarters these days. Sit down, Blake. Let me get you something to drink."

"Not a single scar, not a sign that any reconstruction even took place," the rebel leader continued to marvel. "And your voice--I wouldn't know that voice anywhere." Avon held out a glass to him. "Thank you," he mumbled distractedly, taking it. Then a mischievous smile formed on his lips. He took a sip, frowned, and remarked, "I can taste that."

"You can?" Avon responded in surprise. He reclaimed the glass long enough to take a sip of his own. "No, you can't," he insisted.

"So you _did_ put the antidote in there," Blake declared triumphantly.

"Damn you, Blake!" the other erupted in chagrin. "Here, finish it. Finish every last drop of it, or so help me, I'll hold your nose and pour it down your throat."

"No need to be violent," the rebel leader said ironically, and did as he was told.

Avon handed him several more tubes of the substance. "For the Malkar family," he explained.

"How very considerate of you." Blake tucked them safely away.

"I thought so."

"I trust you covered your tracks when you lifted this."

"But of course." Avon took a seat beside Blake on the couch. "So, how are things at the base?"

"Why? Homesick?"

"No. Just curious to know if Orac's succeeded in pinpointing our hypothetical alarm trigger."

"Yes. Well, with 91.4% probability. It's disappointing so far though inasmuch as we can't make any sense out of it. There's a file codenamed Project Myth--mythology, maybe, that's my guess, not Orac's--formerly XX, now designated Top Secret, a cross reference to another file codenamed CV Research, not part of the Magnetrix database, source unknown, and a list of ten planets with no obvious connection between them. It's under the seal of the Security Commission. Oh, one of the planets on the list is Wanta." He paused. "What do you think?"

Avon smiled. "That I'd rather be back at the base figuring it out than here risking my life."

Blake _didn't_ smile. "Oh, do forgive me, Avon," he said. "I never should have sent you here."

" _Touché_. I deserved that."

"Yes, you did."

"But as it turns out, it's a good thing it _is_ me--because what I have in mind is going to require more expertise with computers than you possess."

Now Blake forgot about trading clever quips and gave the man beside him his full attention. "You know how you're going to do it then?"

"Yes, I think so. Pylene-50 and the antidote are isomers of one another, right?"

"Right. We've known that for some time."

"Right. That's why they look enough alike to have given you the hare-brained idea of mixing them together."

"So?"

"So I've decided the idea isn't so hare-brained, after all."

"Avon! You've found a way to neutralize the bloody drug with its own antagonist before it leaves Ryanec for reservoirs unknown!"

"Try to contain your enthusiasm, Blake. I haven't done it yet. I've only worked out _how_ to do it."

"Then it's as good as done as far as I'm concerned."

The rebel leader had looked away, lost in his own premature celebration, so he didn't catch the pained expression that declaration had brought to Avon's face. "Pay attention, will you, Blake!"

"What? Oh--I'm sorry."

"I'm going to require Orac's assistance, which in turn requires your understanding what it is I need from Orac. Now we know that the antidote only works if it's administered _before_ the Pylene-50 because it can only block the adaptation effect from occurring, not reverse it once it's occurred. We also know that if they're administered together, the antidote is metabolized more rapidly and reaches the receptor sites for which the two substances are competing first--provided there's _enough_ of the antidote relative to the _quantity_ of the adaptation drug. What we _don't_ know is what that magic ratio is."

"That's what you want Orac to calculate."

"Yes, and he had better get it right the first time, or the not-so-funny joke will be, as they say, on us."

"No," Blake corrected, "it will be on the innocent populations of all the conquered worlds."

"That's what I meant," Avon said glibly.

"I hope so. All right, I'll have Orac's judgment as to the proper proportions in your hands as soon as possible. What happens then?"

"Well, then a way must be found to create a physical interface between the section of the plant where the Pylene-50 is produced and the section of the plant where the antidote is produced. At the moment, the only physical link between the two is their plumbing."

Blake looked perplexed. "Well, Avon, you can hardly install a new pipe running the length of the building without anyone noticing."

"Can't I? Think a moment, Blake. Think like the engineer you're supposed to have once been. Where is the best place to conceal a pipe?"

The rebel leader knit his brow in concentration, then looked up with a smile. "Inside another pipe," he answered, as Avon uttered the same answer simultaneously.

"Because of my impeccable credentials and high security clearance," the computer tech continued, "I've been given unrestricted access to all areas of the plant. I've also been given a set of blueprints detailing the plant's construction. If a break were to occur in, say, the main water pipe in the basement, everything would have to be temporarily shut down for repairs. I could easily ask to oversee those repairs on pretext of assessing the functioning of the service robots. So I order the robots to lay in the extra pipe, then I erase all record of their having done so."

"But there hasn't been a break in the main water pipe," Blake pointed out.

"Yet," Avon amended, smiling.

"And after you've established this surreptitious connection and hooked it up to the pipes utilized in the manufacturing processes at either end?"

"I create, in effect, a mixing chamber. The amount of each substance to enter the chamber at a given time will be controlled by the opening and closing of valves in accordance with Orac's specification as to the proper ratio. I program the main computer to keep this process going, and then I _re_ program it to treat the resulting mixture as equivalent to both the adaptation drug and the antidote. Of course the human observers watching the final output at either end won't detect any difference visually, so they'll have no reason to suspect anything is amiss."

"Sounds like you've thought of everything."

"Yes, I have," Avon said matter-of-factly with his usual penchant for treating a compliment directed at his intellect as something due him. "The plan will require one minor adjustment to insure that there's no discernible alteration in the system's output of the major waste product associated with the manufacture of Pylene-50, but that should be simple enough since the drug is still being manufactured in its pure state prior to the time it enters the mixing chamber. More hanky-panky with the valves basically, and it _will_ alter the _rate_ of output of the crystals, but I can explain that to Hagrim as being the result of changes I've instituted to safeguard against the very sort of contamination he's hired me to investigate. It will work very nicely for that purpose, in fact."

"You're a genius, Avon."

"Yes, I know." Again, that same it-goes-without-saying tone. "Oh, Blake, there's one more thing I ought to mention. There's something strange going on at the plant with respect to those waste crystals."

"How so?"

"They're being saved, packaged very carefully and stored somewhere. Evidently it's a recently instituted practice; it wasn't being done at the time of the _Zebulon_ 's haul from Ryanec to Gauda Prime."

"Did you ask why it's being done now?"

"I didn't have to. Hagrim volunteered an explanation the minute he saw I was curious. He was very cool about the whole thing: relaxed, open, above-board--and not the least bit believable."

"So keep your eyes and ears open."

"Don't worry. I intend to."

Blake stood up and raised his bracelet to his lips.

"Are you in a hurry to get back?" Avon asked.

"No, not especially. I just assumed our business was concluded. Why? Was there something else?"

"Yes." His whole body language became suddenly tense and guarded--in unconscious response to which Blake picked up the empty water glass and fiddled with it nervously as he resumed his seat.

"Well?"

"On Gauda Prime," Avon started, avoiding Blake's eyes, "why were you so sure that Servalan couldn't break me?"

"I was reasonably sure she couldn't," the rebel leader replied. "But I was absolutely sure she hadn't."

"Why?"

"Because if she had, you would have told me so the first thing."

"But I was trying to tell you something, and you wouldn't let me. How did you know I wasn't trying to confess that I had given Servalan the location of our hide-out?"

"No, Avon, I meant the _first_ thing. Before you drew my attention to the snake, before _anything_ else. If you _had_ talked, then the minute you saw me, you would have been screaming at me to get the others away from the farmhouse."

Avon's head shot up as if his mind had been invaded by a telepath. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not wrong, but how can you _know_ that?"

"Because it's what you expected Arlen to do," Blake answered simply, "and it didn't remotely fit Arlen. Ergo, you were projecting what _you_ would have done in the same circumstances." Avon relaxed fractionally, comforted somehow that Blake had _reasoned_ his way to his conclusion, not merely mystically "arrived" at it. "Why bring this up now?" the rebel leader asked.

Avon sighed. "Because this isn't the Gauda Prime forest, Blake. If something goes wrong and I'm caught in the act of sabotaging the plant, the most I can promise is to try to buy you a couple of days to clear everyone out."

"Don't talk rubbish," Blake said sharply. "I'm not 'clearing out' if you're caught. I'm coming in after you."

"That would be foolhardy."

"So what else is new?" He grinned. "Anyway, you lasted five days for the memory of Anna Grant. How come living friends are only worth two?"

The attempt at humor fell flat. "Because Shrinker's people didn't have a mind scanner," Avon replied--and looked up at the sudden sound of breaking glass to see Blake crouched over the shattered remnants of his drinking receptacle, quivering in terror.

He rushed to the man's side and laid supporting hands on his arms. "Blake, you're trembling!" he exclaimed in astonishment.

The rebel leader tried to stop, but couldn't. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice a shaky whisper. "I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Avon returned. "I never should have blurted it out that way."

Even in his fragile state, Blake waved off the apology. "You had to tell me. And there really wasn't any 'good' way. But here, Avon? Here at the plant? You're sure? You've seen it?"

"I've seen it," Avon confirmed.

Blake nodded, struggling to pull himself together. "I'll be all right. Really. Just give me a minute."

Avon backed off reluctantly, continuing to hover as Blake staggered back to the couch. "The glass--" he murmured, pointing.

"Leave it," the computer tech said gently, but firmly. "I'll clean it up later." Then, with trepidation, "Do you want to talk about it, Blake--your experience with the mind scanner?"

The rebel leader nodded--almost gratefully, Avon thought. "I never really have, you know. Well, once to Orac when I was running the therapy program, but even then, not in detail."

"Do you _remember_ details? _Can_ you?"

"Oh, enough." Blake's voice took on an ominous quality. "Not that hearing about it will help you if you're unfortunate enough to find yourself in the same predicament. The pain, Avon, the pain it causes is beyond description--it's an agony far in excess of any ordinary torture."

"So it was more than you could resist."

"No, you don't understand. I _did_ resist. But my very act of resistance worked against me and for my interrogators."

"How so?"

Blake sighed, doubtful of being able to communicate adequately the hell he had lived through, but, nonetheless, determined to try. "As bad as the pain is," he began, "you can keep the probe from reading your mind by an effort of will and concentration. But the more you resist, the more the pain increases, and eventually you realize that you're on the verge of passing out. But if you _do_ pass out, all you've been fighting to withhold will be theirs for the taking. So you let up a little bit--just enough to make the pain recede to where it's manageable--and _then_ you realize that they've used that moment of lessened vigilance to get inside. So you increase your resistance immediately, and you push them out again, but you also bring yourself back to the brink of unconsciousness. It becomes a maddening game of advance and retreat, of trying to balance this seesaw you're on, till eventually you can't do it anymore, no matter how strong your will. Eventually you do pass out, and then they help themselves to every scrap of information you've been hiding: every name, every plan, every detail--all of it!" The last words were spit out in a kind of inconsolable hurt fury, forehead pressed against a pair of tightly clenched fists, testifying to the horror of it.

"I'm sorry, Blake," Avon said quietly. "I can imagine what that did to you. I know you would have died sooner than talk."

"Destroy it, Avon," the rebel leader hissed. "Destroy that machine before it has a chance to destroy you."

"I will, Blake," Avon promised. "One way or another, I will." He was totally caught up in the horror of it himself now. The other man's fear--such a rare, nearly unprecedented _display_ of fear, emanating from _that_ man--coursed through his own body in icy cold waves. And the grief behind the fear, that bottomless pit of grief, nearly ruptured his heart. "Blake, have you--?" he started and broke off. "I'm sorry. I have no right to ask."

For the first time Blake emerged from his own pain enough to notice his companion's. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Of course you have a right. Have I what? Go ahead--ask. Ask anything."

"Very well then. Have you forgiven yourself for betraying your associates in the Freedom Party?"

Blake looked bewildered. "Have I _forgiven_ myself? No--because there's nothing _to_ forgive. The guilt is not mine. Oh, there've been times when I felt as though it were, felt as though I should have been stronger, able to resist. But the fact is, to this day, I don't even remember the 'betrayal.' How could I? I was unconscious."

He paused. "Avon, there are no words to convey the depth of my regret and sorrow that those people are dead. I would gladly die each of their deaths in turn if, by so doing, I could bring them back. But I can't. I can only honor their memory by consecrating my life to defeating their murderers."

Avon shuddered. "Honestly, Blake, the things you say sometimes."

The other eyed him, struggling to understand. "It disturbs you because you think I don't mean it," he ventured.

"Oh, no," Avon corrected. "It disturbs me because I'm afraid that you do."

They were locked into one of their soul-piercing gazes now. No matter how often or how hard Avon tried to flee from it, he and Blake seemed destined to end up this way over and over and over again. "And you never once thought of just giving them what they wanted to stop the pain?"

Blake exploded. "No, I never thought of just giving them what they wanted! What they wanted were the names of my friends!"

The computer tech smiled. "Yes, of course."

"You wouldn't have either, Avon."

"Perhaps not, but I'd have thought of it." A moment's hesitation, then, "I _did_ think of it the night Servalan had me." Blake responded with a look of compassion. "I even thought of it when she _wasn't_ torturing me."

The compassion faded out. "Why?"

"Because she offered me something that appealed to me."

"What?"

"The freedom of the others--from you."

Blake's face tightened. "Then why didn't you take it?"

"Because I didn't trust her to keep her word."

"Was that the only reason?"

"Perhaps not, but it was the principal one."

"I don't believe you," Blake said steadily. "Why are you telling me all this anyway?" he added, with mounting irritation.

"Because I almost did it again, Blake. I almost cut out on you."

"When?"

"At the spaceport. When I saw my reflection in a mirror and realized how easily I could.  I went so far as to try to purchase a ticket on a flight to Obligidor."

"So what happened?"

"There were no Alpha accommodations available on the ship." As that manifestly absurd reply tumbled out of Avon's mouth, Blake broke into a grin. Then the grin became a chuckle, and the chuckle a laugh. "Stop that. It's not funny," Avon protested.

Blake only laughed louder. Lifting his bracelet, he contacted the base. "I'm ready to come home now," he said. "Bring me across." To Avon's utter consternation, he was still laughing as he teleported.

 

III

 

One by one the children allowed Docholli to apply the medical laser to their arms--Ved holding JoJo during the inoculation, which even the baby tolerated uncomplainingly. It was, indeed, a far cry from the Old Calendar device utilized for equivalent purposes.

Mirabel had received her immunization first. She sat now beside Blake, pensively playing with a loose thread dangling from the sleeve of her blouse. "I don't know why I resist believing this particular claim when I've accepted the veracity of so many others far more terrible."

On purely philosophical grounds, he might have chosen to quarrel with her assumption that "this" was any _less_ terrible, but that would have been to lose sight of the center for the periphery. "Don't you?" She shook her head. "Torture, murder and memory manipulation are horrific crimes," he said, "but they're crimes with which your husband has had no complicity." She flinched at his forthrightness, but steeled herself to bear it. There was a fire in her which reminded him of Avon--or, better yet (because closer to the truth) of himself.

"Perhaps he _didn't_ know what cargo he was carrying," she suggested.

"Perhaps he didn't, but he should have made it his business to find out."

"We were exempt from all that, Blake. We lived in a different world, a privileged world..."

"I know," the rebel leader said with just the gentlest hint of censure.

"Of course you do," she responded. _And you spurned it all, you impossible man_. She took a deep breath. "He _will_ know, Blake. I'll see to that."

"When? How?"

"When I see him."

"When you--?"

"All finished," Docholli declared, packing up his tools. The children ran to their mother's side.

She gathered them close, still peering into Blake's expectant face. "I've made a decision," she said. "I've decided we're going to join him. If your offer still holds, that is."

The rebel leader broke into a jubilant smile. "Yes, of course it still holds. Mirabel, I'm delighted to hear this."

"Yes, I'm sure you must be. It can't have been easy for you all this time, playing host to a Federation family at a rebel base."

"That's not the reason I'm glad."

"Not even one of the reasons?"

"Mirabel, we'll miss you." _I'll miss you, you enchanting reflection of my stubbornness_...

The children wandered off again, and Docholli had gone some minutes earlier. "How soon do we leave?" she asked.

"More or less when Avon gets back," Blake answered.

She sighed. "I hope I'm doing the right thing. If it were only myself I had to consider, the choice would be easy. Because then, even if I were walking into a living hell, I could be reconciled to it."

Oh yes, Blake thought, how very easy indeed. To take all the suffering upon one's own shoulders would be simplicity itself. But it never works that way. It _never_ does... Images of Gan, of Cally, of Jenna, of Klyn, of Kasabi...of Maron--floated through his mind.

He shook them off. Mirabel's predicament was entirely different. But he'd never minimize the authenticity of her pain. It might not _be_ the same, but it _hurt_ the same. Fear always did... "You're doing the right thing," he told her firmly. "For you _and_ for your children. There's nothing sinister waiting for you where you're going."

"But if I can't _know_ that," she cried helplessly, "if you won't tell me a blessed thing about the place or the people--"

"The place is hospitable to human life," Blake cut in. "The people are very like the people you've been living amongst here." _Better, if the truth be known, by your conventional standards_...

"But I've only your word for that. I can't _know_ ," she repeated.

"You can trust," he said forcefully, squeezing her hands. And in that instant, she very nearly did, overwhelmed by his sheer presence, as she'd been from almost the first moment of their meeting. Because when all was said and done, the image of him stumbling out the front door of her house, covered with filth and bleeding from the wounds he'd sustained shielding her child, was more powerful than the whole host of competing, frightening ones that rose up to challenge it...

"Blake, can I see you for a moment?" It was Deva, carrying Orac.

Mirabel rose gracefully with a whimsical smile. "Revolution calls," she murmured in a teasing, but tolerant tone and slipped away, rounding up and ushering her scattered brood before her.

Deva returned the computer to the worktable where it usually sat. "Finally got it to cough up some information on those ten planets," he reported, unfolding a large sheet of paper and spreading it out for Blake to see.

"It's a star map," the rebel leader exclaimed, blinking, "of the entire charted galaxy."

"It's divided by sectors," Deva pointed out. "Each of the ten planets is located in one of the explored sectors, and, as you'll notice, quite centrally located.  It's especially apparent in the case of the more populated regions where the planet's convenient access from all directions along established Federation trade routes is glaringly obvious."

Blake smiled. "Now that it's all been plotted, it is."

"And there's more," Deva continued. "All of the ten planets on the Magnetrix list have two other things in common: they're all worlds where Federation control is reasonably secure, and they're all relatively sparsely populated."

"What conclusion does Orac draw from that?"

"None that we can't draw ourselves--that the Federation is gearing up for some large-scale project it wishes to undertake in relative isolation vis-a-vis the local inhabitants, yet with the potential to establish rapid and efficient linkage between the separate nodes of the project."

"Project Myth," Blake articulated thoughtfully. "And what does Orac recommend?"

"That we search for the missing piece of the puzzle--the linked document codenamed CV Research."

"Any suggestions as to where?"

Deva shrugged. "Not from Orac. I took the liberty of instructing it to begin a search of all Federation data banks on the planets in question."

"Good a place as any," Blake granted.

"Bet you wish Avon were here right now."

"I just wish we'd hear from Avon, period. There hasn't been a word out of him since we gave him the information he requested about the Pylene-50/antidote ratio."

"You could call _him_ ," Deva suggested.

"And risk giving him away if he's not alone at the time? No, the plan called for me--for him--to ditch his teleport bracelet before leaving the _Aguilar_ so as not to risk detection during the routine security search on arrival at the plant. Rather pointless if we turn around now and advertise the fact that he's kept his communicator." Blake's eyes scrutinized the star chart. "Wanta," he muttered.

"What about it?"

"Just that it may not meet _all_ the specified criteria for much longer."

"Huh?"

"Federation control may not be 'reasonably secure' there."

Deva chuckled. It was typical of Blake to be already probing for the Federation's logistical weak spot--even in advance of a battle of whose terms he had not yet the vaguest idea...

At that moment Tarrant came tearing into the room, running so rapidly he very nearly collided with the pair before bringing himself to a halt. "Take it easy," Blake said, reaching out to steady him. "Where's the fire?"

The pilot's reply came in breathless gasps. "The ship's long-range detectors are picking up heavy seismic activity on the other side of the planet."

"What!" exclaimed Deva.

Blake was already inserting Orac's key. "Orac, link up with the _Zebulon_ 's monitoring system," he instructed. "Tell us what's going on in the area being scanned."

After a moment's delay, the computer responded. *It would seem to be an instance of the phenomenon known as the Ryanec tremor. It is registering Grade A intensity on the Balmoran scale and covers an area of 16 kilometers, centering on coordinates 011.634."

Blake's face grew dark with alarm. "A Grade A intensity planet quake," he repeated. "And Pacifica is smack in the middle of it."

*****

"Tremor Alert.  Tremor Alert. Attention, all personnel. This is not a drill."

"You don't say?" Avon muttered, struggling to keep his footing as the floor swayed beneath him.

The voice on the public address system continued: "Staff are instructed to secure all vital equipment before leaving their posts for the tremor shelter. Anyone failing to do so will be severely dealt with. Please remember this building was constructed to withstand just such events--"

"I'm trying, I'm trying," Avon quipped humorously.

"--There is no need for panic."

"Famous last words." People were rushing every which way through the corridors, scarcely taking heed of one another and even less of the synthesized voice endlessly repeating its prerecorded message. "There never is," he observed, "but that never stops anyone, does it?"

The stairwells were full; no one _else_ was stupid enough to risk using the lift. Avon darted into it. "Basement," he instructed. The jerky ride which followed conjured up visceral memories of regaining consciousness in the _Liberator_ life capsule over Sarran. He whipped out the laser probe he'd concealed under his clothing in an unintentional parody of all the times he'd whipped out a gun in the teleport bay.

The lift hit the ground with a sickening thud, but he was still in one piece when the doors opened. He had more or less planned to do this today in any event. The actual event merely provided his endeavor with a touch of fortuitous serendipity. He looked both ways; no one was in sight.

He made a mad dash for the door to the detention wing, using the force of the quake like Old Calendar aircraft used tailwinds and slid into position with his arm wrapped around the main water pipe like Old Calendar players of a game called "baseball" slid into a piece of ground called "home base."

He knew precisely where he intended to inflict the fatal puncture. He had calculated it with careful cunning so as to guarantee the direction and scope of the resulting water spout. Now he inserted the laser probe and drilled the small hole which would open the floodgates to disaster--and victory.

Earlier he had issued surreptitious orders to the main computer to disregard the hole upon detecting it (instead of dispatching a service robot to seal it) and to respond to the first indications of a leak by _increasing_ the water pressure (instead of shutting off the water altogether). The higher pressure was to be maintained until the water level in the basement rose to a height of one meter, or until human discovery of the problem triggered an alarm (whichever happened first)--whereupon the computer was to resume normal response mode, leaving no record of its ever having done otherwise...

Minutes later he stood and watched as the intended chain of events commenced. For the moment the tremors were quiescent, so he was able to move around easily. He walked to the door of Hagrim's interrogation chamber and palmed it open, allowing the rapidly building river to rush inside. As if it possessed a consciousness of its own, the water headed straight for the sinister machine at the back of the room. Avon smiled as he visualized the delicate electronic circuitry inside shorting out. Ryanec 5 might house the Federation's central manufacturing plant for Pylene-50, but replacements for _these_ damaged components would have to come from somewhere else altogether and would take weeks to arrive and be installed... A surge of vengeful satisfaction grew inside him, like the satisfaction he had felt when he'd _thought_ he'd succeeded in punishing Shrinker for Anna's death. "One for Blake," he hissed through clenched teeth.

The sound of gushing water behind him caused him to turn--and the Ryanec tremor chose that moment to reassert its sovereignty. He lost his balance and fell into the accumulating pool.

He had intended to be nowhere near this area of the plant when the leak was discovered, but as he staggered to his feet, spitting out what he'd inadvertently swallowed, he was drenched to the skin from head to toe. "So much for my alibi," he muttered, wringing out the few water-logged bits of clothing within reach. "The best laid plans of men and computers..."

Well, as long as he was stuck with the near-certainty of being discovered in this condition (even if not in this vicinity), he might as well wrest some gain from it. The basement also contained the lab's storage facilities. He could use this opportunity to steal a closer look at those baffling crates of mythracite crystals...

 _If he could reach them_. The water had risen to its intended height of one meter, and as expected (as planned for), the outflow simply stopped. But wading _through_ the mess to _get to_ the storage area while trying not to land in it face first again posed a challenging problem in acrobatics. He tried to use the walls to steady himself, but they too exhibited a maddening tendency to slip away under the impact of the tremors. Damn! This was turning out to be more difficult than crossing the field of scanner beams leading to the Federation Base on Gauda Prime.

Just as he reached his destination, the tremors stopped again. Apparently for good this time because the "all clear" was sounding and that plastic PA voice was ordering workers back to their duty stations. Which meant that _his_ time was now strictly limited.

He palmed his way inside, the water following closely at his heels. He closed the door behind him, which slowed the seepage to a trickle. If he _were_ caught here, at least he wouldn't have the additional problem of explaining why he'd permitted Pacifica's entire inventory to be ruined.

He quickly located what he was searching for. The packing labels on the crates indicated that their destination was not Budget Control, but the Headquarters of Federation Security Commissioner Sleer. "Servalan!" he breathed. "What the hell does Servalan want with mythracite crystals?"

Voices in the corridor cut short his speculation--cries of "Oh no!" and "What in the galaxy happened here?" and "Somebody call the Director!" His hands were still on the crate he'd been examining when the door burst open on him. "Dr. Janssen!" exclaimed an astonished female voice, "what are _you_ doing here?"

It was Rella, Hagrim's personal assistant. Controlling the instinctive urge to jump away from the crate as if it were an uninsulated heliofusion rod, Avon hoisted it into the air and placed it on a higher shelf. "Trying to limit the damage," he replied smoothly. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" _No, don't answer that. Just swallow my statement like the good little Pylenized Federation pet you are_.

Fortunately, Rella did. "Oh, you poor man," she clucked in sympathy. "You're soaked to the bone. Let me help you."

They were lifting crates together and stacking them on high ground when the Director arrived. "Damn! Isn't this a bloody mess?" he muttered. "Janssen, how the devil did you get stuck in it?"

Already the hum of machinery could be heard suctioning off the water. "I became disoriented trying to find my way to the tremor shelter," Avon said, effecting an embarrassed smile. "Then I was in one of the stairwells, and I heard what sounded like rushing water, so I came to investigate."

"And it's a damn good thing you did, too, from the look of it," Hagrim remarked. Avon's smile turned self-deprecatory.

At that moment a security guard came running up. "Sir," he panted breathlessly, "the water's flooded the interrogation chamber."

"What!"

"I'm afraid we've lost the scanner, Sir--at least for the foreseeable future."

This time Hagrim muttered a stronger curse than "damn" and slammed his fist into the wall. Avon looked away quickly, pretending not to pay attention. "All right, see what you can do to help any other areas of the plant that are reporting tremor damage. Rella, get on the PA system and tell everyone that all operations are shut down until further notice, probably for the remainder of the day." As the woman and the guard departed to comply with their respective orders, he turned back to his quality control expert. "How, Janssen?" he thundered. "How in the name of the seven solar systems of Cygnus could this have happened?"

"If you mean the water leak," Avon started tentatively, "it would seem reasonable to assume that the force of the quake--"

"Yes, yes, but why didn't the computer detect it at once and step in to prevent--all this?" His hands swept around him in a gesture of disgust.

"Piezoelectric effect?" Avon ventured.

"What?"

"It's a well-known phenomenon which occurs in conjunction with seismic upheavals. It produces electromagnetic fields which can temporarily disrupt the proper functioning of computers."

"But we have tremors periodically. They're a fact of life on Ryanec. And we've never experienced a computer malfunction before--certainly not one of this magnitude."

"Well, you wouldn't necessarily. It would depend on a number of factors, such as the strength of the tremor and the direction of its epicenter relative to the plant." He paused for a deep, but silent inhalation. "Besides I'm not sure you're correct in assuming you've never experienced the problem before."

Hagrim slowly rose to the bait. "The contamination!" he exclaimed. "But how?"

"Well, this is just speculation, but if a previous tremor--even a minor one--caused a glitch in the computer lasting even a couple of seconds, and if as a result of that glitch, a valve malfunctioned, that in turn could have resulted in traces of mythracite powder, too fine to detect visually, being transported back into the main batch, instead of out the waste disposal chute."

"And the computer didn't catch it either?" Hagrim looked ill.

"The computer wasn't functioning reliably at the time," Avon reminded him. "Mind you, I'm not saying your accident _did_ happen that way, only that it could have and--more importantly--that similar problems could arise in the future since, as you say, tremors are a fact of life on Ryanec."

"Well, what can we do about it?"

"There are a number of safeguards I can build into your system for you."

"By all means."

"First I'd like to attend to the repair of this water pipe, however."

" _You_ would?" Hagrim laughed in astonishment. "Why? It's a task for service robots, supervised by a Delta grade maintenance worker."

Avon smiled. "It's also an opportunity to assess the _functioning_ of your service robots. You did say you wanted me to evaluate _every_ component of Pacifica's systems."

The Director nodded. "Very well, then. When would you like to get started?"

Avon squeezed the front of his shirt and cast a whimsical glance at the resulting puddle on the floor. "As soon as I change into some dry clothes?" he suggested.

But when he got back to his living quarters the _first_ thing he did was send a message to the base--the message Blake had been waiting for. "Stage one completed," it said. "Advise our chief the demon has been defanged."

*****

"I understand you've arrested two of Blake's rebels," Servalan said, sitting back in her chair while the woman she addressed stood uncomfortably in front of her. It was a not-so-subtle way of emphasizing the power dynamics of their relationship. Although she was technically a guest on Arlen's base, the room she'd commandeered to serve as her temporary office had acquired all the status of her permanent office at the Federation Security Commission and (at least in _her_ mind) all the status of what used to be her Executive Office at Space Command Headquarters.

"Yes, they're being prepared for interrogation now," Arlen confirmed. "Too bad we don't have any Pylene-50 on hand."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem for much longer. Director Hagrim informed me this morning that his outside consultant has diagnosed the probable cause of that unfortunate mishap and instituted measures to prevent a recurrence. In fact, Dr. Janssen will be leaving Pacifica--and Ryanec 5--tomorrow."

"We could hold off the questioning of Blake's rebels until the next shipment gets here," Arlen proposed timidly.

Servalan all but lunged across the desk at her. "Have you taken up stupidity as a recreational pastime? Or are you just going soft on me? It will be more than a dozen time units before a shipment gets here. The lab suffered extensive structural damage during that seismic upheaval last week. It was shut down two entire time units for repairs and for Janssen's modifications to the production process."

"I hadn't realized. Was anyone killed or injured in the quake?"

"Not to my knowledge." Servalan's reply oozed boredom.

"Then they were lucky."

The Commissioner looked appalled. "Arlen, where _is_ your sense of priorities? Their _mind scanner_ was rendered inoperable."

"I wasn't aware they had anyone to use it on," Arlen mumbled.

"Preparedness is everything," Servalan declared. "Meanwhile, _you_ have someone to use _other_ methods on, haven't you?"

"Yes, Commissioner Sleer."

"Then get on with it, Base Commander--and I don't want to hear from you again until you've gotten results!"

Arlen scrambled out the door. Servalan heaved a sigh of exasperation, then turned to the computer terminal on her desk and entered the filename "CV Research." The message "TOP SECRET. ACCESS LIMITED" flashed across the display screen. She entered her personal identity code as Federation Security Commissioner and drummed impatiently on the desktop with her fingers until the system cleared her for access.

A moment later the words "Carimbula Venom" appeared at the top of the screen, followed by the words "Cross-Reference Project Myth." Servalan scrolled through the exceedingly brief distribution list, delineating those persons authorized to receive copies of the document in question and stopped at the heading: "Proposal for a New and Improved Model of Mutoid: History and Background." Resting her chin on her hands, she began to read the text...

 

_Due to an unacceptably high fatality rate amongst Federation personnel working with the Gauda Prime reptile known as "carimbula" (to wit, two deaths within the first seven time units after the opening of the experimental lab for toxin extraction), a decision was made to employ mutoids as handlers on a trial basis. Although the net worth of a mutoid far exceeds the net worth of a Beta grade human of the type already employed on this project, it was felt that the greater mechanical flexibility of the mutoid would result in fewer accidents and thus offset any economic concern. However, on the very first day of the aforementioned trial, a mutoid was bitten._

 

_The mutoid in question was removed immediately to hospital for observation. Although initially exhibiting signs of illness not unlike human victims of the potent neurotoxin, the creature did not expire within the expected 12-30 hours. It remained in a state of paralysis for 4.3 time units, then gradually began to recover motor function. After eight time units, it was once more fully functional._

 

_On further examination, a curious after-effect was noted..._

*****

_"...The mutoid displayed a markedly reduced need for blood plasma, managing to operate at full capacity for five time units before requiring additional nutriment. Our leading expert in the mutoid modification process hypothesizes that exposure to the venom of the carimbula resulted in a slowingdown of the affected mutoid's metabolism, such that it now resembles more closely the metabolism of the cold-blooded creature which attacked it..."_

 

As he mouthed the words on the screen before him, Blake's eyes widened in astonishment. There had been one more message from Avon, following the one which signaled the sabotage of the mind scanner. It reported his complete success in secretly revamping Pacifica's processing equipment, such that both ends of the plant were now turning out the Pylene-50/antidote _mixture_ \--guaranteeing that anyone slated for adaptation would be immunized and anyone slated for immunization would be immunized. "Heads we win, tails they lose," had been Avon's succinct phrasing of it, assuring the rebels that Hagrim had swallowed wholesale "Dr. Janssen's" explanation that the altered rhythm of output was the direct result of his newly installed anti-tremor measures.

There had been one additional, seemingly unrelated, piece of information in Avon's message: the discovery that those waste crystals were headed, not to any local budget overseer, but off-planet to the headquarters of Madame Pacification and Control herself: Sleer/Servalan. Based on that disclosure, Blake had directed Orac to tap into the computers at Sleer's headquarters. Minutes later Orac had startled him by announcing that it had located the object of a _previous_ search directive--a file codenamed "CV Research." Blake continued reading...

 

_Further experimentation revealed that diluting the toxin to a fraction of its full potency achieved the same effect without the intervening period of incapacitation. Computer modeling projected that combining the diluted toxin with a substance possessing a particular set of properties would double the length of time the mutoid could function on one unit of plasma (ie, increase the already observed 5-fold extension to a 10-fold extension).  Asked to identify existing substances matching that theoretical profile, the computer revealed that the substance closest to its ideal projection was the byproduct of the Pylene-50 manufacturing process known as mythracite crystals, previously considered worthless..._

 

Blake let out an involuntary exhalation and struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Of course! It's not 'myth' as in 'mythology'. It's 'myth' as in 'mythracite'!" He returned to the text:

 

_If incorporated into the initial modification procedure, the administration of the carimbula toxin/mythracite combination should not have to be repeated thereafter. The advantages of turning out a line of mutoids able to perform ten times longer than the present line on an equivalent intake of blood plasma are obvious. Accordingly, it is proposed that a search be commenced for suitable planets where a series of facilities can be constructed to serve as modification centers for a new model of mutoid, to be known as a "mythoid." These centers should be rationally distributed throughout the colonized sectors of the galaxy. Initially one planet in one sector shall be chosen as the site for a prototype plant to test--and hopefully establish beyond dispute--the feasibility and desirability of pursuing this project on a larger scale._

 

Blake turned away from the screen, deep in thought. Might there be some way to influence the Federation's choice of location for that "prototype"? To induce them to select Wanta, for example, where within a very short span of time he expected to have allies capable of aiding in an attack against such a facility...?

"Blake," whispered a fatherly voice, "go to bed." It was Docholli arriving to take his turn at nightshift security duty.

Blake looked up at him and yawned. "You don't have to do this, you know. You're exempt."

"I don't want to be exempt," the doctor replied. "You told me a lifetime ago that as long as I was with you, I was one of you."

And you've lived up to that in every way, the rebel leader thought with silent gratitude.

"Blake--"

"Huh?"

"You're sitting in my chair." Amusement twinkled in the older man's eyes.

"Oh--sorry." He pushed himself to his feet.

"Go to bed, Son," Docholli repeated.

"I'm not tired," Blake yawned incoherently.

"The hell you're not. You're falling asleep on your feet. Look at you." Then, "You've got to be a hundred per cent tomorrow morning for Avon's sake."

That did it. Blake shook himself vigorously and clapped Docholli across the shoulders. "When you're right, you're right," he conceded.

And the man _was_ right. For tomorrow Avon was coming home, and Blake was to rendezvous with him at the spaceport, to insure that "Dr. Ari Janssen" had a teleport bracelet in his possession before he was officially observed and recorded leaving Ryanec on board the spaceship _Aguilar_.

*****

It had been such an elegant plan, Avon mused, as he stepped out of the air car shuttle, flanked on either side by his official Federation escort, and he had brought it off so very cleverly. He was certain that no one at Pacifica suspected a thing. Blake could never have managed it half as well. Blake would have found _some_ way to muck it up. Come to think of it, Blake still might...

Blake was here somewhere amidst this crowd of people moving around the spaceport, waiting for inbound travellers or seeing off outbound ones or preparing to travel themselves. Blake was carrying an extra teleport bracelet for him to use to return to the base from the _Aguilar_. And then Orac would erase the name of Dr. Ari Janssen from the passenger manifest so there'd be no embarrassing questions when the said Dr. Janssen failed to _dis_ embark at the other end of the journey...

Oh, they'd find out eventually--the Federation would--when all their presumed "dociles" didn't _stay_ docile and when repeat inoculation with "Pylene-50" only compounded the problem. Eventually they'd re-analyze the chemical at its source, and they'd probably realize who had been responsible. And when further investigation revealed that "Dr. Ari Janssen" had never existed, they might well even suspect who had _really_ been responsible--but by then it would be too late. The protection conferred by Forbus's antidote was for life. Pylene-50 would soon be finished as a major weapon in Servalan's arsenal.

But just at the moment, his concerns were less cosmic: he needed to lose his attentive honor guard and find Blake.

The first half of that proved a bit more difficult than he'd anticipated. His companions had orders from Hagrim to look after his welfare until he was safely on board the _Aguilar_. But the ship wasn't scheduled to depart for another hour. Thanking them by way of hinting that their services were no longer required proved too subtle to penetrate. (He even wondered momentarily whether lower echelon security guards were ever candidates for adaptation.) Finally he put it to them straight out--that they didn't need to stay with him any longer and that, in fact, he thought they deserved a bit of time to themselves, and he slipped them each a handful of credits and pointed them towards the spaceport's most elegant dining lounge: an establishment that would ordinarily have been far out of their price range.

That did the trick.

Finally left by himself, Avon backed into the nearest vacant seat that was far enough removed from other people to be safe, took off his spectacles and made as if to wipe them with a handkerchief. "Blake, come in, Blake. Do you read me?" he whispered.

"Yes, I wondered how long it was going to take you to shake those two," replied a teasing voice.

That meant Blake had him in his sights. Avon's body tensed involuntarily at the realization, and he furtively scanned the area.

"By the ticket counter," the voice directed him, and sure enough, there was the rebel leader, donning the same disguise that _hadn't_ worked the day he'd gone out to find the Malkars. Avon shook his head in that mixture of amazement and disapproval that had all but become a trademark of their interactions. "You'll notice there's a flight to Obligidor scheduled today, too," Blake went on. "There are vacancies left in the Alpha section on this one. I asked."

"Stop clowning around, Blake," Avon hissed. "This is neither the time nor the place."

"I _did_ ask," the other man insisted into his concealed bracelet. "Last chance to leave, Dr. Janssen."

"If I were going to leave, I could do it on the _Aguilar_ ," the hiss continued. "Let's get this over with. Where?"

"Follow me."

Avon rose and started forward in Blake's direction.

"But not too closely," admonished the gently infuriating voice.

Avon maintained his distance, staying just close enough to keep the rebel leader within sight. He observed several Federation guards who looked vaguely familiar carrying crates which looked even more familiar pass within a few meters of Blake, but they paid him no attention. Come to think of it now, there _had_ been other Pacifica security personnel on the air car shuttle. He hadn't dwelt on it at the time; it hadn't seemed important.

It didn't seem important now either so long as they didn't stumble upon _him_ in the act of his impending rendezvous... Blake was descending on a mobile staircase. The men from the plant had entered a lift. Avon stepped onto the same staircase as the door to the lift closed.  He didn't have time to see in which direction they went.

At the bottom of the staircase a narrow subterranean passage led to the area from which cargo was loaded onto space freighters. Blake was waiting for him in the shadows. He moved up beside him, muttering, "I don't appreciate your metaphors."

"Don't you?"

"Give me the bloody bracelet, Blake, and get the hell out of here!" The rebel leader handed him the item in question, and he fastened it around his ankle, using both his sock and the cuff of his trousers to hide it from sight.

"Why so jumpy, Avon?" Blake soothed. "We're almost home free."

"I thought you told me once that almost doesn't count," flew back the retort, then, "Quick! Get down!" Blake obeyed instantly, and Avon fell to the ground beside him. Those guards from Pacifica _had_ been headed their way with those crates. The pair huddled, breathless, till the guards put down the crates and left. Then they looked at each other and sighed in unison. "That was too damn close," Avon whispered.

"For once I agree with you," Blake whispered back.

But as they rose to their feet, thinking themselves safe, they were hit by a fresh surge of pounding adrenalin. For a set of walls they hadn't even realized existed in this seemingly open area suddenly began descending all around them. They raced in the direction from which the guards had exited and pressed themselves up against the wall at that spot, straining to hear over the mechanical hum which had just that instant sealed them inside.

Now the humming was replaced by what sounded like a code being punched up on a computerized door lock. Then a voice said, "That should keep anyone from getting in till we return with the duty officer from the _Pegasus_."

And a second voice replied, "I still think it's paranoid to go to such extremes for a mere ten minutes. What if a legitimate freight handler needs to get inside?"

"You said it yourself," the first voice retorted. "It's a mere ten minutes." The conversation ceased, and their footsteps faded away.

Avon dashed across the floor to where the guards had placed the crates. "It's as I thought," he exclaimed, "From Pacifica via the freighter _Pegasus_ to Sleer on Gauda Prime. What the hell does Servalan want with mythracite crystals, and why all this fuss to safeguard them?"

"Actually, I know the answer to that now," Blake said. "But it will have to wait. We've a more urgent problem at the moment. Those guards will be back in ten minutes to collect those crates. Unless I miss my guess, the crates will be loaded onto _that_ conveyer belt." His face was a study in pensiveness as he pointed. "No way they're going to move from there to there without stumbling across us."

"Agreed," Avon breathed tensely. "All right, call the base, Blake. Get out now."

"And you?"

"I can bluff my way out."

"That's what Maron said."

A moment of silence, then Avon nodded. "Very well--we'll both teleport." He bent down to retrieve his bracelet.

Blake reached out a hand and stopped him. "Avon, think! If Dr. Ari Janssen is not officially logged as having boarded that ship, a cloud of suspicion will hang over everything he did while on Ryanec. Hagrim will take a closer look at the changes you instituted. He'll uncover the sabotage. It will all have been for nothing."

"So what's your alternative?"

"When the guards return, I'll decoy them--give you a chance to slip out of here unnoticed and get in line to board the ship as if nothing happened."

"But they'll recognize you!" Avon protested. "That disguise won't fool them for two minutes once they've a reason to be suspicious. They'll have seen vis-casts."

"Maybe not," Blake insisted optimistically. "Maybe they'll just take me for a common vagrant and throw me in the civil jail."

Avon was beside himself. "Even at the civil jail, they'd run a computer check on your identity. Blake, you know what they'll do to you."

"I know what they _won't_ do to me--thanks to you."

"If that bloody machine would have deterred you from this insanity, I wish to God I'd never touched it!"

Blake whirled on Avon, livid. "Don't you dare say that! They don't have the mind scanner, and they can't use Pylene-50 on me."

"That's hardly the sum total of the repertoire," Avon shot back.

"It's the sum total of all that _I_ care about," Blake maintained.

"This is madness," the other argued. "I can't just leave you to them."

"You must! You can come back for me later--"

"For what's left of you, you mean."

"--when you're no longer Dr. Ari Janssen."

"The reverse surgery?" Avon exclaimed. "But that will delay me at least one additional full day." He was as close to hysterical as Blake had ever seen him, excepting only that morning in the Gauda Prime forest when he'd pleaded with the rebel leader not to use himself as bait for Servalan's carimbula. Blake had yielded to _that_ plea. This time he couldn't.

He reached out and grasped Avon's arms. "I'll be fine," he said staunchly.

"Really? You usually lie better than that, Blake."

"Well there, you see--it _isn't_ a lie." He was smiling with an almost angelic serenity. "Avon, I'm not going to tell them anything," he promised softly.

Avon was shaking, biting his lip and fighting tears. "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" he managed to spit out.

"I'm sure of my priorities, if that's what you mean," Blake answered. "But if you're still worried--or if the others are--then you'll just have to abandon base. Take the ship into orbit."

"Blake, you know full well that any orbit high enough to escape this planet's detectors would also put me out of teleport range. I'd have no way of coming back for you."

The rebel leader shrugged philosophically. "Even so."

" _Even so_?!"

"It's a judgment call, Avon."

_And I know what yours would be if the situation were reversed, don't I?_

The sound of approaching footsteps told them the guards from Pacifica had found the duty officer from the _Pegasus_. Blake removed his teleport bracelet and held it out. Avon backed away, shaking his head, refusing to take it. Blake knelt down and fastened the bracelet around his friend's other ankle, covering it as the first one was covered. "I'm going to do this, Avon," he said simply. "Please don't waste it."

The mechanical hum they'd heard previously commenced anew. The rebel leader pulled out his gun and tossed it into a corner. As the walls slowly started to rise, Avon backed up towards the nearest hiding place. "Blake," he said, breathing tensely with every word, "if something goes wrong...if I can't get back for you in time...I just want you to know...I'll stay with the others...like before..."

Blake looked at him in astonishment, unable to believe his ears. "Avon," he gasped, "I can't ask that of you! Not when I know how you _feel_ \--about before."

And from his miserably inadequate hiding place behind some boxes, the sound of Avon's final words issued forth: "You didn't, Blake. You didn't ask it."

*****

"I must admit I don't understand _why_ Commissioner Sleer insisted on all this special handling," grumbled the voice of one of the guards, as the squad of four, plus the duty officer from the _Pegasus_ , stepped into the storage area.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't either," the latter admitted.

"Who understands why Sleer does anything?" piped up another voice. "Now Director Hagrim--that's the sort of man you can _enjoy_ working for."

As two of the guards headed for the crates and a third switched on the conveyer belt, Blake stepped out of the shadows into plain view.

"What the devil--?" started the squad leader, drawing his gun.

"Don't shoot. Please. Please don't shoot," Blake said, raising his hands. "I'm not armed." _Well, I'm not armed any longer_. Instantly he was staring down the business end of _four_ guns. "I fell asleep in here last night, you see," he recounted with an apologetic smile, all the while shifting his position so that the guards would have to shift theirs to keep their weapons trained on him, so that Avon would have a pathway of escape behind their backs... "I'd been to a bar," he continued with feigned awkwardness. "Had a bit too much adrenalin and soma. Powerful stuff, that adrenalin and soma. My mother is always warning me to stay away from it, but I just can't seem to..."

"You don't _look_ drunk," the leader observed skeptically.

"You don't _smell_ drunk," the man beside him added.

"Slept it off, I guess," Blake offered weakly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the officer from the _Pegasus_ , who was not armed and had not joined the others, begin to move in the wrong direction. Towards where Avon was hiding...

The "innocent act" option had just been withdrawn. "But since you gentlemen evidently don't believe me," he continued, his tone taking on a note of menace, "I think I'll be on my way." He punctuated the last word by shoving the nearest guard into the next nearest, then sprinted for the corridor.

"After him!" ordered the squad leader. "Don't shoot unless you have to, and _don't_ shoot to kill!" The distraction had its desired effect on the man from the _Pegasus_. He followed the other four out into the corridor and watched as they cornered the intruder and manacled his hands behind his back.

Avon had moved the instant he saw the opportunity to do so. He was on the mobile staircase, halfway to the top, looking down as the officer in charge barked orders. "You, Trooper, stay and help _him_ ," pointing to the Gauda Prime freighter's duty officer. "You two," addressing the men who held Blake, "bring him along. Let's get him upstairs where we can look at him in the light."

Avon jumped off the staircase just as the security personnel from Pacifica dragged Blake onto it. They didn't wait for it to take them to the top, however. They climbed while it was moving, hauling their prisoner along with them. So Avon was only a few meters away when they pushed Blake up against a wall, ripped off his hood and jacket and started frisking him.

"No identity papers," he heard one of them grumble. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" Then the man grabbed a handful of Blake's curls and yanked hard. "All right, fellow, who are you?"

"I can't seem to remember," came the answer in a voice thick with hurting. "Pain does that to me." The guard slammed his head against the wall and stared in amazement when the act elicited no outcry.

Blake could see Avon standing there, watching it all. Go, he thought desperately, wishing he possessed just a fraction of Cally's telepathic skills. Turn your back on this and walk away. _Now_ , dammit, before they--

Too late. "Hey, you," one of the troopers called to Avon. "What do you think you're gawking at? Let me see your identity papers."

Avon started to reach inside his pocket. "You fool," scolded the second trooper. "Don't you recognize him? That's Dr. Janssen. He was on the shuttle with us this morning. He's here for the _Aguilar_."

The identity papers were offered, and the man who had called for them scrutinized them. "Terribly sorry," he murmured. "I didn't recognize you."

"Quite all right," Avon responded, taking back his papers.

"Well, I recognize _this_ one now." It was the squad leader who had spoken. "Gentlemen, this is our lucky day. Allow me to present Roj Blake."

"No!" gasped the first guard in awe.

"Who?" stammered Avon innocently.

"Blake. Roj Blake," the squad leader repeated. "You know--the terrorist."

Avon shrugged. "Sorry. Never heard of him."

Despite everything, Blake found himself struggling to suppress a smile. "What's so funny?" sneered his captor. "Or are you just proud of your reputation? I wouldn't smirk if I were you right now. Or hasn't your predicament fully sunk in as yet?"

"I assume those are rhetorical questions," Blake said imperiously.

The other man looked him up and down. "Well, this one isn't. Where's the rest of your crew, Blake?"

"Do you know I've been wondering that myself." The smart retort earned him a kick in the shins.

"Where's Kerr Avon?" the squad leader bellowed next.

Blake grinned. "Funny you should ask. The truth is, I haven't seen that handsome face of his in weeks." This time he received a smack across the mouth, hard enough to draw blood.

Avon steeled himself. He'd often doubted the other man's brains, but never his nerve. Well, if Blake could bear this, _he_ could bear to watch it...

Others were in a position to watch it too, but as people moved back and forth across the busy spaceport, not a single one stopped or even conspicuously turned to look. They'd learned their lesson well, these model Federation citizens. They knew better than to "notice" violence when the perpetrators of that violence wore Federation uniforms...

"Think you're tough, don't you?" the interrogator taunted, seizing an earlobe between his thumb and forefinger, twisting and pinching till the defiant eyes glaring at him darkened with pain. "Think you're hard as nails. Well, let me tell you something, Blake. Where we're taking you, even herculaneum melts. You'll answer our questions. You'll plead to be allowed to answer them."

Through his pain, Blake continued to meet the other's gaze unflinchingly. "Don't count on it."

The squad leader turned to one of his men. "Call the Director. Tell him we've arrested Roj Blake at the spaceport and that we'll be bringing him back to Pacifica on the next shuttle."

With all of the guards momentarily focused on each other, Blake chanced one brief instant of eye contact with Avon. Go, he mouthed silently, snapping his head forward again immediately as his captors turned back to him.

Avon felt as though his legs were rooted to the spot. Even though there was not one single, solitary thing he could do for Blake here, not one word he could say or action he could take that would lessen by the slightest fraction the pain Blake was suffering (not to mention the incalculably greater pain Blake _would_ be suffering), he didn't want to be separated from him--as if merely witnessing the other man's ordeal possessed some intrinsic value... A patently stupid, sentimental notion better suited to Blake than to himself. _So why was he still standing there_?

An instant later the decision was taken out of his hands as the public address system announced that the _Aguilar_ was boarding. He became Ari Janssen again in earnest. "That's my call," he said to the men from Pacifica and, gesturing towards Blake, "You be careful with that one. He looks dangerous."

"Don't worry, Dr. Janssen," the squad leader replied smugly. "His days of endangering the public welfare are over." Then he seized Blake by the shoulders and flung him to the ground. "Start filing down some of those sharp points of his," he sneered.

Avon walked across the spaceport towards the check-in line for the _Aguilar_ , forcing himself not to look back as Hagrim's men savagely pummeled and kicked the helpless bundle of human flesh at their feet. He marveled--and was infinitely grateful--that the bundle didn't scream, or even moan. Perhaps Blake had lapsed into merciful unconsciousness...

Moments later, standing in line to be processed for the cruiser, he knew differently. He watched from an almost-comforting distance as the troopers dragged Blake across the floor towards Shuttle Berth Six, dragged him by the manacles on his wrists, still imparting a kick every few meters.  Blake's face was oriented upward as he was pulled from behind, his heels scraping the ground in a precariously unbalanced posture, neither standing nor sitting, but somewhere between the two. Avon looked at Blake's face, and it was frozen in a mask of agony. If he could have seen his own at that moment, the last lingering remnants of his pretensions to indifference would have died for all eternity.


End file.
